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Honored in the Breach 




BY 


JULIA MAGRUDEB, 

AUTHOR OF “ACROSS THE CHASM,” “ A' MAGNIFICENT PLEBEIAN,” ETC. 

• V 



/ 



PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY. 




Copyright, 1888, by J. B. Lippincott Company. 


LIPPINCOTT’S 


]y[ONTHLY I^AGAZINE. 

MARCH, 1888. 


HONOKED IJSr THE BREACH. 


CHAPTER I. 

E ASTMERE was thronged with visitors ; its popularity as a sum- 
mer resort had never been so great. The immense hotels were 
stretched to their utmost capacity, the public cottages crowded and the 
private ones agreeably filled. The spring, if drainable, would have been 
long since drained by the multitude of consumers of medicinal waters. 
The drives were a crush by day and the ball-rooms a crush by night, 
and the season was at its height. 

One of the most desirable of the private residences had been closed 
during the early part of the season, and was now just thrown open for 
the occupancy of its owner. Miss Gladys Montaveril, and her step-mother. 
The two ladies had been in Europe since immediately after the death 
of Mr. Lucius Montaveril, the husband of one and the father of the 
other, and this season at Eastmere was their first reappearance in society 
since their mourning. Mrs. Montaveril was rather young and rather 
pretty, and Gladys was much younger and much prettier, and, since the 
latter was not only a beauty but an heiress in her own right, it was not 
remarkable that the, opening of the long-closed cottage should be looked 
upon by the company at Eastmere as an event of importance. 

The two ladies whom chance had thrown together thus intimately 
were as unlike as could well be imagined. But as the younger had very 
much the stronger will, and the elder had the good sense to yield to it, 
they got on together with an appearance of perfect harmony. . Gladys 
was lavishly generous, and Mrs. Montaveril, whose own fortune was 
insignificant in comparison, reaped the benefit of this generosity and 
knew better than to quarrel with her bread and butter. 

One morning, during the first week of her stay at Eastmere, Miss 
Montaveril waked early. She had been up very late at a ball the night 
before, and she felt feverish and tired. After tossing restlessly on her 

289 


290 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


bed for a while, in the vain endeavor to go to sleep again, she got up 
and crossed the room in little softly-slippered feet, and, throwing open 
the blinds, looked out upon the lovely dawn. The sun was just emerg- 
ing from his pink cloud-bed and casting his golden light upon the quiet 
world. The heavy dew, that lay on leaves and grass and shrubbery, 
freshened the morning air and drew a pungent odor from a bed of mint 
in a garden, some distance off, which a buoyant little breeze caught up 
and wafted away. The birds had sung their morning songs and gone 
off to the day’s work, and only here and there a tremulous twitter be- 
trayed the presence of some deserted fledgling. The landscape every- 
where was motionless, save for the trembling of leaves and swaying of 
flowers in the garden down below. In a lane outside the enclosure a 
homeless cat was straying, stepping gingerly through the long damp 
grass, her very tail held high, in protest against the heavy dew. 

Gladys threw a dressing-gown around her, and leaned her arms 
upon the broad window-sill, thinking. This world of reality — nature’s 
own pure face, the golden glow of the sunshine, the blue of heaven, 
the green of earth — seemed such a different place from the crowded 
ball-room, the garish gas-light, the gorgeous artificialness, of a few 
hours back. In a few hours more that world would be upon her again 
and she would be one of the puppets moving about in it, and she shrank 
from the thought. She longed for a perpetuation of the impressions 
of this morning hour, — for nature, — for simplicity, — for reality. This 
young and healthy maiden, with the typical bed of roses spread for her 
repose, was discontented with her lot, and wished intensely for some- 
thing that should be utterly different. Not that she would willingly 
have relinquished her worldly possessions and personal advantages, but 
she wanted something to give them value, — ^to make them other than 
the mere materiality they were. A very sad mood was upon her, as 
she leaned from her luxurious chamber, over her beautiful grounds, 
wrapped in silken draperies that covered a heavy heart. She was 
possessed by that worst kind of longing, which is ignorant of its own 
object. The tears welled up in her eyes, and before the mist had cleared 
away, she saw, coming slowly along the lane that bordered her grounds, 
a figure clad in deep black. It was a woman, and she was evidently 
young, though her face was hid behind her thick black veil, which fell 
also over something that she carried in her hands. Gladys watched at- 
tentively as the woman’s figure took its way toward a little old-fashioned 
• church at the top of the hill, which had a grave-yard attached to it, the 
white stones of which the girl had often looked at from her window. It 
was quite apart from the principal street, where the handsome modern 
church attended by the Eastmere visitors was situated. 

Gladys presently lost sight of the figure among the trees in the 
church-yard, but there had been something about this woman that had 
so interested her that she determined to watch for her return. Before 
long she reappeared, walking with the same quiet motion, as if utterly 
unconscious of herself, and passed along the lane and out of sight. 

Afterwards Gladys went to bed and fell into a heavy sleep, from 
which she wakened late, to find her maid softly moving about the rooifi, 
making the preparations for her young lady’s toilet, while the sounds 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


291 


of rumbling vehicles and distant street-cries fell upon her ears with 
their unwelcome familiarity. Had she dreamed that early morning 
scene or really experienced it ? It seemed far more like a dream than a 
reality. Surely those were the sounds and sights and feelings of another 
world, and that black-robed figure could not have been an inhabitant 
of this sphere, where people lived to wear gay clothes and go to balls 
and receive visits and carry out such plans as those to which her own 
engagements for the day committed her. 

The next morning it happened, strangely enough, that Gladys waked 
at the same early hour, and her first consciousness was an impulse to go 
. to the window and look out again for the dark-clad figure. She had 
not waited long when the lady appeared, accompanied this time by a 
chubby child carrying a handful of flowers. The child wore a little 
simple white dress, flowing free from the shoulders, and her rosy face, 
fresh from its. morning bath, with its smoothly-brushed wavy hair fall- 
ing backward, was surmounted by a bewitching white sun-bonnet, clean 
and fresh as a flower-cup, tied under her dimpled chin. Gladys was 
captivated by her at once. The' little creature held on to the lady^s 
hand, chattering and smiling, and the moment passed all too swiftly for 
the watcher at the window, who was now more than ever full of interest. 
She lingered until the pair had returned — the child empty-handed now 
— and passed out of sight. 

When Miss MontaveriPs maid, Molly, came into the room an hour 
later, her young mistress questioned her closely as to whether she could 
give any information about the lady and child. It seemed that Molly 
also had observed them and taken the interest to make inquiries, which 
had elicited the fact that the lady^s name was Mrs. Acland, and she was 
a widow, living, with her only child, all the year round, in a small cot- 
tage, which the girl described to Gladys, who remembered to have ob- 
served it set back from the road behind a thick growth of vines and 
shrubs which almost concealed it from sight. Mr. Acland, the maid 
went on to say, had died at Eastmere a year or two back, and had been 
buried in the old cemetery, and the lady and child had never left the 
place. 

After breakfast that morning Gladys renewed her inquiries as she 
sat with her step-mother, entertaining some visitors, who were old ha- 
bitu^s of Eastmere, and learned all the details of the sad story of pas- 
sionate love and sorrow. It was pictured as an ideally happy marriage, 
and the thought of death was made more terrible to the girl than it 
had ever been before, in view of the bright happiness it put out. 

The story impressed Gladys deeply. The intense reality of a life 
such as this woman led was a strong appeal to a mind earnest by nature, 
but compelled by circumstances to occupy itself with trivialities. If she 
had cared for the trivialities she probably would not have minded that 
they were such, but it happened that she did not care for them in the 
least, and she was filled now with a strong desire" to have a nearer in- 
sight into a life that presented the strongest possible contrast to her own. 

Truth to tell, there was a reason why Miss MontaveriPs life, just at 
present, was less than usually a contented one. She had brought with 
her from Europe the sense of a new element that had entered into her 


292 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


existence, and it was a disturbing one. An important decision would 
be forced upon lier soon, and she was restless and doubtful as to how 
she should settle it. 

That afternoon Miss Montaveril, returning from a luncheon, had 
stepped from her carriage, and was entering the house, her mind full of 
the sights and sounds she had just turned her back upon, when, just 
before crossing the threshold of her door, she heard a child's voice 
saying, wistfully, — 

Oh, Mammy, I miss I had a yose !" 

Glancing in the direction of the sound, Gladys saw a little figure 
that she instantly recognized, accompanied by a stately old negro woman, 
whose head was surmounted by a tall plaid turban. It was Mrs. Ac- 
land's child and nurse. 

Gladys turned hastily and descended the steps, gathering her sump- 
tuous draperies in her hand, and crossing the lawn toward the spot 
where the pair were standing. The old woman was evidently rebuking 
the child, and urging her to come away. 

Do let her have a rose," said Gladys with a winning smile to the 
nurse. — Here, little one," she added, breaking off a rich red rose and 
handing it to her. 

^ The child took the flower, and, wrinkling up her little nose, buried 
it in the rose's crimson heart and sniffed its odor enjoy ingly. 

Thank you, ma'am," said the old woman, courtesying. — Thank 
the lady. Con, for giving you the flower." 

The child lifted her head and turned her face up to be kissed, with- 
out speaking. She was evidently accustomed to but one mode of dis- 
charging her obligations. 

As Mammy lifted her for the young lady to kiss, Gladys put out 
her arms and took the little creature and kissed her tenderly. Then 
she told her to come as often as she chose and pick flowers. 

Mammy, ath mother to let me," said the child, wistfully. 

Mrs. Acland will be very much obliged to you, ma'am," said the 
old woman, with a stately little courtesy, and, taking the child by the 
hand, she led her away. 

Miss Montaveril went to a reception that evening, and met a host 
of gay, amusing people, and heard bright talk and agreeable speeches 
without limit, but somehow the strange hold that Mrs. Acland's 
history had taken upon her possessed her mind so strongly that thoughts 
of the widow and the child and the old colored woman were perpetually 
rising in her mind like beings from another world, and making a most 
incongruous medley in conjunction with the characters about her. 

She woke next morning with the same confusion in her mind, and 
went to her window just in time to see the mother and child returning 
from their morning mission. Why was it that this vision of sadness 
always seemed to her a reality, and the gay pleasure-seeking all about 
it always seemed so hollow and unreal? Each was a phase of life. 
One was as much life as the other. It must have been because the soul 
within her was more attuned to sadness than mirth. Certainly the 
gayest scene she had ever mingled in had never touched her heart and 
inspired her mind as the sight of this woman's faithful grief had done. 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


293 


She had but a dim idea of what it was, — that sorrow over an irre- 
claimable love, — and she knew the face of pleasure well, and yet she 
felt within her a mysterious kinship with Mrs. Acland, while the 
throng of gay and pleasure-seeking people by whom she had all her 
life been surrounded seemed to her as aliens. 

As soon as breakfast was over that morning, Gladys put on her 
hat and pinned a thick veil over her face, and started out on an expedi- 
tion the object of which she mentioned to no one. Mrs. Montaveril 
wondered where she was going, but she was not in the habit of question- 
ing her step-daughter when the latter chose not to volunteer information. 


CHAPTER II. 

Once outside the house, Gladys let herself out into the lane by a 
side-entrance, and, avoiding the streets where she might meet with ac- 
quaintances,-*turned h€r steps in the direction she had so often seen the 
mother and child take. In a few minutes she was standing at the en- 
trance of the humble little church-yard. There was no difficulty in 
finding the spot she sought. The small lot, enclosed by a low iron 
railing, with its carefully-tended grass and freshly-blown flowers, above 
which rose up a tall white cross, stood out conspicuously from its neg- 
lected and forsaken surroundings. There was another cemetery, in 
connection with the new church, and this one had now been almost 
abandoned, as a place of burial. The graves were mostly very old, 
and overrun with a rank growth of ivy and myrtle and ragged sprouts 
from the aspens and ailanthus-trees that shaded it densely, but a loving 
thought had guarded the sacred spot marked by the high white cross, 
and carefully kept down the encroaching undergrowth below, while, up 
above, the trees had been so trimmed and tended as to make sufficient 
space for the sunlight to penetrate to where the flowers bloomed above 
the blessed dead. 

As Gladys lifted the latch of the little gate and entered, the place 
of death seemed to her to be pervaded by the vividness of a living 
love. If it be true that ^^our dead are never dead until we have 
forgotten them,^^ surely the Arthur Acland who^e name was cut, in 
merciless distinctness, on this cold white marble was vitally alive. 

At the top of the cross was the monogram of the name of Christ, 
and across the arms the name of the quiet sleeper, and underneath 
three dates. Gladys read them, and knew that they recorded his birth, 
his marriage, and his death. The tears sprang to her eyes, and she fell 
upon her knees. 

As the tear-mist cleared away she saw that she w^as kneeling on a 
'dense growth of vines, which her dress had brushed aside from the base 
of the cross, thereby revealing some small but distinct lettering in the 
marble. She stooped to read it, drawing the vines gently away. On 
one side of the base was inscribed, Erected by Constance, his wife,^’ 
and on the other side, I believe in the resurrection of the body, and 
the life everlasting.^^ 

As Gladys read these words a passionate pain thrilled through her : 


294 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


she sank backward to the ground and covered her face with her hands. 
There was no consolation for her in this inscription ; it was but a spirit- 
less form, except in so far as it conveyed to her mind a vivid insight 
into the strength of that human devotion that could not give up its 
love to death and the grave. Gladys was not irreligious, and so she 
read the words reverently, but she was unreligious, and therefore she 
found no definite hope in them. 

There was nothing but sadness to her. in this spot, a desolate unre- 
lenting sadness that made the bird-voices in the trees, the vivid colors 
in the flowers, and the serene splendor of the summer sunshine a dread- 
ful mockery to her. There were fresh-cut flowers on the grave, their 
stems in an earthen jar of water sunk in the green turf. She could 
smell their delicious fragrance as she knelt there and listened to the 
birds half protestingly and took in the beauty of the summer landscape 
spread around her. These things could be, in a world where there was 
the daily recurrence to some one of such a blighting grief as this ! 
When she thought of what this woman^s life Had been as a wife, and 
contrasted it with what her life was now as a widow, she pitied her 
from her soul; and yet when she drew another contrast between the 
earnestness of this life, whether in joy or grief, and the aimlessness of 
her own, she felt a sort of pity for herself. This wom^n^s existence, 
from youth to old age, must be one long sorrow and pain, — she real- 
ized that, — and yet what a treasure beyond price the mere memory of 
such a love must be ! In that moment she too felt the truth that to 
have loved and lost might be better than never to have loved at all. 

Poor Gladys ! She was disturbed and perplexed this morning 
almost without knowing why. She was infinitely tired of the life she 
led. It seemed to her the most uninspiring and stupid she could pos- 
sibly imagine. She wished she could care for the things that most of 
the women of her acquaintance found their interest in, but she had tried 
and she couldn’t ! She sometimes interpreted the restless reaching for- 
ward which she \y^s so prone to as a longing for human love, given and 
received. But what did human love amount to; after all? The grave 
in front of her was the answer to that question. She was by no means 
sure that she wanted to love as this wife Constance had loved, or to be 
loved as she had been. The dread of the inevitable end would be too 
awful. 

She left the old church-yard, and with slow and w^eary steps turned 
homeward. Her face was weary, too, as she crossed the threshold of 
her beautiful summer home, where a servant met her with a letter that 
had come for her by the morning’s post. As the girl’s eyes fell upon 
the envelope and she recognized the handwriting, her manner changed 
to a sudden interest, and a rising flush displaced the lassitude her coun- 
tenance had worn. She took the letter and went at once to her own 
room to read it. There was no expression of expectant pleasure on her 
face as she broke the seal, though there was a perceptible agitation in 
her manner and lu^r fingers trembled. Her face grew graye and troubled 
as she read the letter, which was very short, and merely said that the 
writer, having just arrived in New York, had been sorry to find her 
absent, and proposed, if quite agreeable to Miss Montaveril, to come 


HONORED IN THE BREACH, 295 

on, in a day or two, to Eastmere. He would, however, await her 
answer before making any definite plan. 

And what should that answer be ? Gladys threw aside her hat and 
gloves, and rested her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, 
thinking intently. Presently she took up the letter and read it through 
again. It was very characteristic, in spite of its brevity. It was like 
Reginald Locksly to compel her to commit herself to a certain amount 
of encouragement of his suit before he pressed it further. She smiled 
a little, as she thought of this, and the smile relaxed the rather severe 
expression of her face. Nothing could have been better expressed than 
this note was ; no handwriting could have been more elegant, no station- 
ery in better taste, to tlie last detail. And Gladys liked all this. She 
felt herself, it is true, very much apart from the frivolous worldlings 
among whom her lot was passed, but the very worldliest of them could 
not have been more exacting in the articles of their code, in all its 
minor details, than she was herself. She recognized the fact that it 
would be a very decided step to encourage him to come to Eastmere. 
She had never met a man so much to her taste as Mr. Locksly, and 
when they had chanced to make acquaintance during her recent travels 
in Europe, she had thought him, from the first, freer from objections 
than she ever expected a man to be. Pie had been travelling in the 
East for some time, and, though an American, was so cosmopolitan he 
seemed to possess the most attractive points of all nationalities, — at 
least so it seemed to her limited experience. They got on capitally 
together, and she had not expected that he would fall in love with or 
want to- marry her, and she suspected that to him also it had been a 
surprise when he had found himself getting into that drift. And yet 
she was certain that no man^s homage had ever been so agreeable to her 
before, and up to a certain point she had found ijt all very delightful. 
When it was just beginning to get beyond that point, however, the 
girl suddenly became aware of a feeling that she could define by no 
other word than fright. She was positively alarmed lest he should 
compel her to consider him in the light of a possible husband, and in 
that light she had never yet cared to consider any man. When Miss 
Montaveril suggested to herself the idea* of remaining permanently 
unmarried, she turned away from the thought with distinct repulsion. 
She had long held to the unexpressed idea that the agreeable something 
that she believed to lie ahead was to reveal itself in matrimony, and 
she distinctly meant to marry. And yet when this most unobjectionable 
man of her acquaintance managed to convey to her the suggestion that 
he aspired to her hand, her impulse had been to run away from him ; 
and during his absence on a few days^ excursion, at the end of which 
he had proposed to himself to return and observe the progress of the 
seed he had left to fructify in Miss MontaveriFs mind, she actually did 
take advantage of a sudden suggestion thrown out by her step-mother, 
and impulsively sail for America. She did not do so without counting 
the cost and estimating the probability that her suitor ^might not take 
the trouble to follow her, but that risk she was abundantly willing to 
run. Certainly, if he cared so little for her as that, she was not going to 
care at all for him ! She had rather expected th^t he would write, and 


296 


HO^'ORKD IN THE BREACH 


was tlierefore a little startled to find him already in America, but the fact 
argued a degree of earnestness that was not unflattering. Now that he 
was near at hand, however, she felt no wish to have him nearer, althougli 
she could think of no man at Eastmere who was not put at a disadvan- 
tage by him. Somehow the thing seemed more distinctly defined in 
her mind now than it had been. She didnH want to marry a man she 
didn’t love, and she didn’t love this man ! And yet she couldn’t bear 
to prevent his coming, for slie might never meet again a man so possible 
to love as this, and she was weary of this loveless, listless, uninteresting 
life. It was a perplexing quandary, and she felt utterly unable to 
decide how she should act. This perplexity and indecision made her 
gloomy, and every aspect of life that presented itself to her thoughts, 
from the frivolity of her own existence to the earnestness and sadness 
of the young widow’s near by, looked so dreary and fruitless that she 
longed to escape the contemplation of them, and was glad when a sum- 
mons to see visitors offered a diversion to her mind. 

After the first of these visitors left, two ladies who were on very 
familiar terms in the house game in, and stayed to luncheon, and in the 
midst of the chatter and animation that this entailed the letter was 
almost forgotten. Gladys w^as not sorry that an engagement for the 
evening banished it still further from her mind, and she made a par- 
tially successful effort to throw the matter off, deciding that she would 
think it all over and act to-morrow morning. 

A postponed responsibility of this sort is very apt to present itself 
with increased insistency after being kept waiting ; and Gladys w^aked 
next morning with a feeling of deep despondency. It w^as much more 
her habit to take counsel of her inclination and impulse than her sense 
of duty, for she was self-willed, if not selfish; and if she could have been 
perfectly certain of what she wanted to do she w'ould have done it, but 
unfortunately she was not certain of this. She was only sure of what 
she didn’t want to do. She didn’t want to write Mr. Locksly to come, 
and just as little did she Avant to prevent his coming. It w^as impossi- 
ble for her to see any way out of the difficulty that it w\as not unpleas- 
ant to contemplate. It may seem almost ridiculous, but Gladys felt 
herself to be in great trouble, and could hardly control her impulse to 
give w^ay to a fit of weeping. She got through breakfast as well as she 
could, and then came back to her room to write her letter. But she 
could not make up her mind. The more she reflected, the harder it 
seemed. She believed in her heart that it would be the part of wisdom 
in her to encourage Mr. Locksly’s suit, and, indeed, to marry him. 
What earthly objection to him could she find? Not one, except that 
she did not love him, and could not imagine herself as ever growing to 
love him as she would want to love the man she married. But how 
was that? Was it not something akin to the passionate absorbing de- 
votion that Mrs. Acland had given and received? — and what had it* 
come to? The thought made her shudder. 

The need had come to her which some time or other comes ‘to every 
woman of earnest nature and strong feelings. She wanted a confessor 
and adviser, and where was she to turn ? Never had the loneliness 
and isolation of her life come home to her so strongly. She would as 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


297 


soon have thought of confiding her desires and perplexities to a kitten 
or a bird as to lier step-mother, who, it must be said, had a veiy dis- 
tinct idea of what she herself wanted and aimed at in this life, and 
would have been utterly unable to comprehend her step-daugliter’s 
difficulties. No matter whom her thoughts would turn toward, Gladys 
was conscious, all the time, of an almost irresistible drawing to go to 
Mrs. Acland and see if she couldn’t get some help from her. 

The moments hurried past, and the letter remained unwritten. She 
actually got out ink and paper and spread them before her, hoping for 
inspiration from some source, but when she seated herself and took up 
her pen she felt so utterly helpless that she could bear it no longer. She 
was used to having'- difficulties smoothed out of her path, and her present 
grievance was something new to her. There was but one possibility of 
help that seemed to be in the least hopeful, and without more ado she 
put on her hat and went down the stairs and out of the house, taking 
the road that led to Mrs. Acland’s cottage. This woman had endured 
so much that sorrow must surely have taught her some wisdom, by 
which she could counsel and encourage others, and Gladys felt a vital 
need just now of both encouragement and counsel. 

She let herself in at Mrs. Acland’s gate, walked up the path, and, 
mounting the steps of the long vine-covered porch, paused on the 
threshold and waited. The windows that opened on this porch were 
raised, and Gladys could hear voices. She stood quite still, alarmed at 
the thought of her own boldness and half awe-struck at the idea of her 
nearness to that great and sacred grief. The day was very warm, and 
she had felt the sun oppressive as she walked along, but here all was^ 
cool and still and fragrant. Hardly knowing what she was doing, or 
whether she most wanted to go on or to escape, she took a step forward, 
and now the interior of the room was revealed to her. Her first im- 
pression was one of pleasure at the beauty and harmoniousness of the 
apartment, but this was swiftly lost in a feeling of surprise at the aspect 
of the figure that faced her. Instead of the woman clad in blackest 
mourning garments, with a face whose sadness she had almost dreaded, 
she saw a gentle, light-haired creature, in a loose white cotton morning 
gown, bending a lovely face that was full of something that was almost 
merriment upon the child who sat upon her knee. The little creature’s 
tiny hand was doubled up very tight, and the heads of both were bent 
above it, regarding it with an intent interest. 

Deth adain !” the child was saying, her eyes twinkling with fun. 

Well, let me see,” said the mother, ruminatingly. It’s — it’s — 

it must be a turkey-gobbler !” she ended, suddenly, as if struck 

with an inspiration. 

The child threw back her head and laughed ecstatically. 

No, ’tain’t !” she said ; ith thumpin littler ’n that. One more 
deth !” 

‘‘ Well, what can it be?” said the mother, knitting her brows, as if 
in deep thought. You said it had legs and wings, and it was alive ; 
and it’s not a turkey-gobbler. I guess it’s a little chickie !” 

^^No, ’tain’t,” replied the child, shaking her head in great glee. 

Dive it up ?” 


298 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


Yes, I’ll have to give it up. I’m sure I’d never guess it. Let 
me see'.” 

The two heads bent lower yet above the chubby fist, and, while the 
child’s face grew grave with absorbed attention, the mother’s slender 
fingers gradually and cautiously unclosed the little hand, which, alas, 
was shown to be quite empty ! 

The child’s countenance fell, and she raised her eyes in piteous 
disappointment. 

It wath a f^,” she said, ruefully, and ith dot away.” 

Was it a f’y, my precious ?” the mother said, clasping the little 
creature to her breast with a motion of passionate tenderness, and rock- 
ing herself backward as she held her close and fast. ^^And mother 
guessed it was a turkey-gobbler or a little chickie ! Poor mother 
couldn’t guess a bit : could she ? Never mind if it did get away. 
Mother will tell you a pretty story, to make up for it.” 

The child began to chatter, and struggled to release herself, but the 
mother held her close, until she had hurriedly pressed her handkerchief 
against her eyes, in which, even while she had been smiling, two tears 
had welled up. Then she re-seated the little one upon her knee and 
turned upon her a face as bright as ever, as she said, — 

What shall I tell about, baby ? Must it be a new story or an old 
one ?” 

A new toley. Tell about a ’ittle Py/^ 1^^^ child answered, settling 
herself complacently, as if accustomed to having her stories made to 
order in this way. 

The mother was just about to begin, when, as she leaned backward 
in her seat, she caught sight of Gladys’s dress amidst the vines of the 
porch, and the girl, finding herself discovered, stepped into full view. 
Slie was blushing painfully, but the heaviness and disquiet of her heart 
seemed to herself so sufficient an excuse for her strange conduct that 
she felt eager to justify herself, and, instead of retreating, she stepped 
through the window and entered the room, automatically reaching up 
to remove her veil in obedience to an instinct of frankness and openness. 

When the veil was taken off and Gladys stood face to face with 
Mrs. Acland, who had put the child fi’om lier lap and risen to lier feet, 
the look with which the girl found herself confronted put her conduct 
before her in its true light, for the first time. Mrs. Acland said noth- 
ing, but stood waiting for her visitor to explain her presence, and Gladys 
now realized that she had been guilty of an unpardonable breach of 
good breeding. She felt overwhelmed with embarrassment, which the 
absolute self-possession of the other woman served rather to increase. 
Mrs. Acland stood so erect and still, and, in spite of the fact that she 
wore only a pure-white freshly-washed morning gown, she looked so 
regal, that Gladys felt overawed and was totally unable to speak. The 
silence was becoming unbearable, when the child came to the rescue. 

Mother,” she said, ith the Iqjly that dave me yotheth.” 

^^It was very kind of the lady,” said Mrs. Acland, gently, but 
coldly, and then, influenced perhaps by the distressed look on Gladys’s 
face, she added, more kindly, Perhaps you have made some mistake.” 

Poor Gladys felt thrust back upon herself, in a way that hurt her 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


299 


keenly. In general, people were so willing to comply with her wishes 
and give her her way that she hardly knew how to take this rebuff, 
gentle as it was. She began to think of going, but she shrank from the 
vision of herself hurrying back in shame and confusion along the way 
she had come, and she felt so helpless when she thought of the letter, 
and longed so for the blessed comfort of free speech with some one, 
while there seemed to be but one person in the world whom she could 
imagine herself talking freely to, and that one, though just at hand, 
she was being thrust away from. It seemed to her very cruel, and, in 
spite of her effort at repression, the tears came into her eyes. 

Instantly Mrs. Acland^s manner changed. She took the child^s 
hand and led her to the door, telling her to run away to Mammy and 
not come back until she was called, and then, closing the door, she crossed 
the room swiftly toward Gladys, and said, in a voice of the kindest 
pity,— 

You are in trouble. Something distresses you, and you think I 
might help you. Perhaps I can.^^ And, taking her hand in hers, she 
led her to a lounge, uj^on which Gladys sank, hiding her face in her 
handkerchief, with a strong effort to recover herself. Mrs. Acland 
sat down at her side, retaining one of her hands, and holding it in a 
firm pressure. 

Let me try to help you if I can,^^ she said, presently, but donft 
speak until you feel more quiet. I have plenty of time to wait.^^ 

She looked down at the hand she held, and saw that it was white 
and fine and adorned with splendid rings. She noted, too, the graceful 
contour of the youthful figure, and the elegance of the simple morning 
costume. How young and strong and prosperous this girl looked, and 
at the same time how tender ! How was she to bear up under the 
heavy hand of inevitable sorrow, whose first pressure she was perhaps 
even now beginning to feel ? 

At such a time as this, women who have suffered feel a certain 
heart-uplifting in thankfulness for the power of sympathy which their 
own familiarity with sorrow has won them, and it seems worth while 
to have known the pain, to be able to tell others who stand quivering 
beneath its first incisive cuts that it can be borne, because it has been 
borne. And perhaps it is also at such times as these that the strongest 
gleams of comfort come to the souls long used to grief, in the form of 
a lightning-swift glance along the years to come, to a point — it may be 
very far away — where there is rest. 

It was a clearer vision of this than had ever come to her before that 
made Mrs. Acland^s voice strong, and sweet, and inspiring, as she said, — 

I shouldnft be glad that you had come, if I saw you happy and 
satisfied, but when I know you are sad and troubled I am glad, for I 
think perhaps I can tell you something to help you, and I would rather 
be able to help you than almost anything in the world. I wish I could 
show you how near to you I feel, — all in a moment. Just now, you 
were a stranger whom I felt almost indignant with, but now I feel so 
differently, and I believe if you went away from me now, without 
speaking, and I never saw you again, I should always think of you as 
a friend.^^ 


300 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


Gladys had recovered her self-possession, and now she turned her 
eyes steadily upon her companion. 

Don’t think me thoughtless and cruel,” she said, ^^for I know 
what your life has been, and I am not forgetful of it ; but I long so 
to ask you a question.” 

She paused, and Mrs. Acland answered, quickly, — 

Ask it, without hesitation. I give you leave to ask me anything 
you like.” 

Then tell me,” said Gladys, impulsively, tell me, in the light of 
all you have suffered, do you think love and marriage the best life for 
a woman ?” 

A swift flush suffused Mrs. Acland’s face, but she did not flinch 
beneath the other’s searching gaze. Sonie impetuous answer seemed to 
tremble on her lips, but she constrained herself to be silent a moment. 
Then she answered, seriously and simply, Yes.” 

And tell me this,” pursued Gladys, with the same keen look and 
tone : was there ever a time in your life when it would have been 
possible for you to marry a man whom you could not give your best 
and strongest love to?” 

I will have to look far back,” said Mrs. Acland, before I can 
be quite sure that I can answer that question accurately. There was 
once a time to which none of the impulses and motives of the life I 
live now have any application, and at that time I suppose such a thing 
as you have suggested might have been possible to me, — but only in 
this way, — only on the supposition of my being mistaken in my own 
feeling. I might have married a man I did not love, but I would only 
have done so under the impression that I did love him. Of that I 
cannot have the slightest doubt.” 

But if you had begun by supposing, you might have gone on 
supposing,” said Gladys ; and if you had never found out you didn’t 
love him, that would have been all the same as loving him.” 

Mrs. Acland looked at her a moment, without speaking. Then 
she said, gravely, — 

You do not understand. You are utterly ignorant. I know just 
how ignorant and blind you are, for I was once as much so myself. 
You will only have to wait. Nothing can make it all clear to you but 
the reality.” 

But how do people know that the reality — if you mean by that 
the truest love — will ever come to them ?” 

People who are willing to give up that possibility, however remote, 
for a present certainty that is something less, would be very apt, I 
should think, to cut themselves off from the higher love.” 

^‘But many people, you must acknowledge, are incapable of the 
high and exalted feeling which answers to your idea of true love.” 

‘‘ Yes, 1 admit that of many — indeed, of most people.” 

And suppose I, for one, am of that number ?” 

Mrs. Acland looked at her in silence for a moment, and then said, — 

I do not believe it of you.” 

‘‘ Do you think love and marriage the only happiness for a woman ?” 
asked Gladys. 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


301 


No, I don’t think that. I think a true marriage is the happiest 
lot, but not the only happy one ; for I believe every useful life is, in 
one sense, a happy one. But I cannot judge for another. I can only 
thank God for the high and blessed estate to which it pleased Him to 
call me.” 

^^How can you?” said Gladys, impetuously, looking at her with 
wonder-struck eyes. When I think of a loneliness like yours, I seem 
to shrink from the very thought of love. No matter how perfect it 
may be, its outgrowth must be wretchedness and pain. How can you 
be glad of a thing that has yielded you such misery ?” 

Because it has yielded me such joy !” said Mrs. Acland, fer- 
vidly, — a joy that outweighs the pain, oh, infinitely ! I am lonely 
and sad, as you say, and so I am to continue all my life. I realize 
that, as you cannot possibly do ; but I have my memory of the past, 
and my hope for the future, and I have my child ! Suppose I had 
none of these : what would this loneliness be, compared to that?” 

But suppose what you remember — suppose your child had never 
been. You would not then be conscious of any loss.” 

No : if the highest aspirations I am capable of had never been 
awakened and ultimately realized, I might have been content to live 
my life out on a lower plane. Even in my bitterest sorrow I have 
been strengthened by the thought that now I could never breathe a 
lower atmosphere, and that the only step that it is possible for me to 
take now is the one that leads upward to heaven. That is the only 
change for me that would not be a positive lowering.” 

There was a moment’s silence, which Gladys broke by saying, — 

You can’t in the least understand what a relief and comfort it 
is to me to talk to you. I feel an impulse to pour out all my heart to 
you, and, if I did, I don’t believe you would misinterpret me. But 
what, in truth, are you thinking of me ? Do you imagine me a con- 
stitutionally garrulous, egotistical, undignified creature who pours her 
complaints into every ear that will attend to them, without any sense 
of reserve?” 

I imagine,” returned her companion, smiling a little, that you 
are a person almost unwisely self-contained and reticent. You appear 
to me like one drawing an unwonted breath of the freedom of self- 
expression.” 

I think that is just the truth,” said Gladys, looking at her in sur- 
prise. ‘‘ How wonderful your insight must be !” 

^‘If you would let* me advise ^ou,” went on Mrs. Acland, 
should say, do not resist your inclination to speak to me with the 
utmost freedom. I feel as if I were going to be able to help you.” 

Gladys shook her head as if in doubt. 

You don’t know what you may be undertaking,” she said. 
am not what you may suppose me, perhaps, and I have such moods ! 
Sometimes I should be hard even to you, perhaps, and miserably un- 
susceptible to your high appeals. Often I am persuaded in my mind 
that the best is too good for me, and am perilously near embracing a 
sort of life that you would think almost degrading. I am nearer to it 
now than you could believe.” 


302 


HONORED IN THE BREACH, 


Perhaps not. I can believe a great deal of a young soul that has 
never known anything higher than its own instincts, and has never 
sought, or been blessed in finding, its noblest ideals outside of self. 
If you had been altogether capable of contentment on such a plane of 
living as you speak of, you would not have put down the cries of pru- 
dence and decorum which must have clamored against the eccentric step 
you have taken in forcing your way into my presence and taking me 
into your confidence.’^ 

But I have not taken you into my confidence. I am only making 
up my mind whether I shall or not.” 

“You’ve confessed to me more than you know, perhaps, and, 
whether you ever choose to give facts and details or not, I feel that 
you have confided in me.” 

Gladys made no answer. She was thinking how extraordinary it 
was that her mood had changed so completely since she had begun to 
talk to Mrs. Acland. The anxiety and trouble she had felt on enter- 
ing this house seemed to her absurd now, and she began to wonder 
that she had hesitated so over the answer to Mr. Locksly’s letter. The 
glimpse that had been given her of Mrs. Acland ’s life had repelled 
rather than attracted her, and she felt that she wouldn’t for all the 
world conform her own life to such ideas. She suddenly determined 
that she would write to Mr. Locksly to come, and it seemed to her ex- 
tremely likely that the matter would go further. She hoped, indeed, 
that it might. It was very clear to her that the same laws and im- 
pulses were not for Mrs. Acland and herself. 

At this point of her meditation she turned suddenly toward her 
companion, in whose eyes she met a look which caused her to say, im- 
pulsively, — 

“ Were you ever different from what you are now ? I mean, — 
don’t misunderstand me, — when you were a young girl, did you ever 
care for balls and amusements ?” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Acland, smiling ; “ it is natural for healthy 
young creatures to enjoy amusement, before life becomes too grave.” 

“Why should life necessarily become grave?” said Gladys. “I 
never can see why people insist on that, — at least while one is in health 
and without extraordinary afflictions. I want to choose the circum- 
stances of my life so as to provide against the approach of this sadness 
you seem to think inevitable; and, unless I lose my health or meet 
with some other affliction which I cannot possibly foresee now, I don’t 
see why I cannot do it.” 

“ I did not say sadness was inevitable, — only that one soon outlives 
the gayety of youth, and the grave time of life comes : great happiness 
may bring that, as well as great sorrow. But human beings,^ after 
early youth, do not evidence a deep happiness by gayety. It is too 
solemn a thing.” 

“Solemn!” said Gladys. “That isn’t the kind of happiness I 
want. I hate solemn things. I should like to be gay and light- 
hearted all the time.” 

“And are you so?” said Mrs. Acland, with a look that was a 
gentle reminder of the tears that had been shed within the hour. 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


303 


said Gladys, am not so now; but that is because I 
cannot make up my mind about things. I am afraid that in choosing 
my own destiny I might make a mistake. Once decided on certain 
important points, however, I mean to be happy ; not solemnly so, but 
gayly so.'' 

Suppose you should choose wrongly ?" 

That is the trouble. That is all my fear at present. When I 
was younger I used to say I would never marry ; but I have changed ; 
I have decided to marry." 

Mrs. Acland had drawn a little apart from her, and no longer 
held her hand. Gladys felt that the sympathy which had been given 
to her former mood was withheld from this one, and she scarcely re- 
gretted it. 

I don't know whether to speak or to be silent," Mrs. Acland said. 
‘‘ It is unreasonable of me, I suppose, to feel hurt at the way you talk. 
Your ignorance ought to excuse you. But I must tell you a little 
how I feel. I would seem false to myself if I didn't." Her face 
grew paler, and her voice showed that she was deeply stirred. Mar- 
riage — true marriage, as it was ordained by God — is the highest and 
holiest thing on earth, — a thing for a woman to live on her knees for, 
— a thing which if she misses, nothing remains for her but heaven ; 
for there is no complete life on earth without i£^ I pray for my child 
every day that God may call her to this high estate, for the thought 
of life for her without it is terrible to me. And you talk about 
deciding it this way or that, as if it were a business engagement, instead 
of a thing too holy for the touch of any but God and the angels !" 

Her voice had acquired an intense fervor as she went on, her face 
flushed, her bosom heaved. A wave of passionate emotion rushed over 
her, and she could say no more. She leaned forward in her seat, 
dropped her face in her hands, and remained for a few moments per- 
fectly still, struggling to overcome this rush of feelings and to recover 
her calmness. 

Gladys, for her part, was bewildered and almost terrified. She had 
never known anything like this before. The marriages that had come 
within her observation were either those made in Vanity Fair, and con- 
sequently endorsed by the world, or such as had been marked by an 
impetuosity and indecorum which she joined the world in condemning. 
But in this totally new view of the subject there was something that 
certainly fascinated her imagination at the same time that it repelled 
her reason. She was alarmed to find her sympathy engaged at all, for 
it was the kind of thing she would least have desired for herself. The 
few passionate attachments she had known of had generally come to ill, 
and these experiences had left on her a sense of violent action and re- 
action, which she construed as inevitable cause and effect. 

Mrs. Acland's emotion seemed to have spent itself. She lowered 
her hands and sat upright, looking at Gladys with a face so calm and 
peaceful that the latter said, half involuntarily, — 

And you are not utterly miserable ?" 

I would not change places with you," Mrs. Acland said, for all 
the world could offer me." 

VoL. XLI.— 20 


304 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


^^You don’t understand my position, then. I’ve given you some 
false notion about myself by my absurd tears a while ago. If you think 
me unhappy, I assure you you are wrong. My life has been very 
pleasant, on the whole, as far as it has gone, and I intend it to be a 
great deal better in future. I have said I mean to marry, and I will 
see that the man I make choice of possesses the qualities that will insure 
me such surroundings as will secure my comfort and happiness.” 

There was an instant’s pause before Mrs. Acland said, — 

I rather believed myself to be satisfied once, too, and trusted in 
my capability of arranging my life to suit my fancy, with a confidence 
not very far short of your own. But something came that took it all 
out of my hands and made me just helpless. I saw then that my way 
was marked out for me.” 

She spoke with an earnestness that disturbed her companion, whose 
strongest effort was now directed against that dangerous tendency to 
responsiveness which her will refused to sanction. 

Should you like me to tell you,” said Gladys, gayly, what are 
my requirements in my partner for life?” 

I should, very much,” said Mrs. Acland, with an indulgent smile, 
such as she might have bestowed upon Con. 

As a matter of course,” began Gladys, he must be honorable, 
well-born, and intelligent. Then he must be a man who would never 
offend my taste in the smallest particular. Then it is imperative that 
he shall have a name I like. I thought seriously of accepting a man 
once because his name was Algernon Oranmore. It would have been a 
perennial comfort to address him as Algernon that would have com- 
pensated for the likelihood of my not having anything particular to 
say to him. Then he must be distinguished-looking : I don’t make a 
point of absolute beauty. Then he must know the world and have 
accomplishments, and his manner and person must be scrupulously in 
accord with the strictest perfection of elegance and high civilization.” 

You have omitted one point that I thought was always included 
by young ladies in making up their future happiness : I mean the tre- 
mendous wealth which the man must be possessed of.” 

Oh, I don’t specially care about that,” said Gladys, rather hur- 
riedly, or rather I include that consideration in saying that he must 
not offend against my sense of good taste, for unless he had enough to 
provide suitably for himself and me, it would be the extreme of bad 
taste for him to request me to marry him.” 

Is that all ?” said Mrs. Acland, as she paused. Your standard 
does not seem to me very difficult.” 

On the contrary, I think my standard exceedingly high.” 

And yet,” said Mrs. Acland, unless I am much mistaken, you 
have had in your mind, as you have spoken, an individual and not a 
class. Are you willing to tell me whether or not I am right in thinking 
you have had in view some one personally known to you ?” 

Gladys met her eyes with perfect steadiness, though the color in her 
cheek deepened, as she said, — 

Yes, you are right in that.” 

And this man wants to marry you ?” 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


305 


So he has given me reason to believe/^ 

And you are hesitating what to say 

I am ; or rather I was. My mind is almost made up now.” 

Mrs. Acland rose and walked across the room, turning her back to 
her visitor and looking a moment through the open window. Her face 
was disturbed and perplexed.'^ She seemed struggling with some strong 
impulse that she hesitated to obey. When she presently turned to her 
guest, however, her face had taken on a more determined look, and she 
reseated herself by the girl. 

I must speak out to you,” she said. It may be useless, but I 
cannot help it. It would be wicked of me to keep back the knowledge 
that my own great love has given me. Oh, why won’t people live up 
to their privileges ? It seems such folly and madness to refuse to take 
the glorious destiny held out. My dear young girl, you are in terrible 
danger. You must not marry that man. Your feeling for him has 
not one quality of the essence of true love. You would be miserable ; 
and you may be so happy ! Oh, if you will believe the word of a 
woman who has known to the full the highest happiness that it is given 
to human beings to feel, you will not throw your glorious chance away. 
Let my experience — the sweetest words can tell — avail you something, 
at the opening of your young life. God must have led you to me, for 
I am one who can speak to you from the basis of a passionate reality, 
and I hope, through His blessing, to save you from a fate too terrible 
for me to bear to think of.” 

The intense power of her fervent personality moved Gladys to a 
reluctant sympathy with her emotion, and she felt herself borne onward 
by a current of strong feeling which she was powerless to resist. She 
did not want to possess such a passionate intensity of feeling as this 
woman had ; she felt an instinct to flee from it as from a thing that 
would overtake and conquer her unless she hurried to escape. 

‘‘ I must go,” she said, rising hastily. You have been very good 
to listen to me so long. Don’t worry about me, please. I oughtn’t to 
have troubled you. I shall do very well, and I am not capable of 
living on a plane with you. If I am content with very common food 
for my daily bread, because it is easy to procure and wholesome, don’t 
whet my appetite for the exquisite delicacies which are for the privileged 
few, and which I have not the cultivation to enjoy. I must say good- 
by now. And, by the way, all this time I have not even told you 
who I am. My name is Gladys Montaveril. Have you ever heard it 
before ?” 

Mrs. Acland shook her head, at which her companion smiled. 

I am glad of it,” she said. There is nothing either very good 
or very interesting to hear, and you will probably find out soon enough 
what an inconvenient, vacillating, next-to-nobody I am, whom you 
may have more patience with if these qualities dawn upon you gradually 
instead of all at once. By which you will understand that you are to 
see more of me in the future, if you will be good enough to allow it.” 

I hope to see more of you,” Mrs. Acland answered, gravely, ^^and 
I shall trust to your remembering what I have said to you, when the 
important moment of decision comes. Oh, if you only saw it all as I 


306 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


see it, you would understand how precious above everything the joy of 
a true marriage is. If you knew what I have suffered in the breaking 
of that bond, and yet how willing I am to take the pain, when I re- 
member the joy past and to come ! My husband used to quote so often, 
as the very soul of his belief and hope, that wonderful, beautiful line, — 

‘ If my bark sink, ’tis to another sea.’ ” 

These were the last words of that strange interview, and they rang 
in Gladys’s ears insistently as she walked homeward. 


CHAPTER III. 

When Miss Montaveril, a few days later, ascended the steps of 
Mrs. Acland’s cottage for the second time, there was no faltering in her 
step, no hesitation in her bearing. She walked across the piazza with 
erect carriage and buoyant motions, and chlled out cheerily, — 

May I come in ?” for the sound of voices had assured her that the 
mother and child were within the room. 

Mrs. Acland was seated on a low chair, with Con on a footstool 
beside her, pointing out, to a rather reluctant student, the letters on a 
picture-card, and calling their names distinctly, while Con’s little 
piping treble repeated them rather listlessly. 

As Gladys announced herself, both mother and child looked up 
with a smile of w^elcome; but Mrs. Acland was all in dense, deep 
black to-day, and looked paler and graver than she had looked before. 
She hurried to give her visitor a cordial welcome, however, and Con 
was told to put her lesson by until another time. 

Gladys caught the little creature to her and perched her on her 
knee. 

Have you been well ?” she said, turning to Mrs. Acland, with a 
touch of sympathy in her voice that showed she had observed the 
other’s pallor. 

^^Yes, tliank you. I am hardly ever ill,” said Mrs. Acland, 
evasively. And you ? Have you been well and bright ?” 

^^Oh, very,” said Gladys. ^^You know I made a resolution to 
that effect. You must not think me habitually as doleful as you have 
seen me. I was annoyed then by the necessity of deciding something, 
and that is always a tax on one’s energies. But that is over now, and 
I am a different being, — myself again, in fact.” 

You mean the point is decided?” 

To a certain extent.” 

Mrs. Acland was silent a moment, and then she said, half hesi- 
tatingly,— 

Do you mean to tell me your decision ?” 

I think not,” said Gladys, looking at Con all the while, and 
touching up with her finger-tips the fluffy locks of hair that hung over 
the child’s forehead. You are so kind that you might give yourself 
some trouble about a thing that is not worth it,” she went on. 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


307 


^^That is my only reason for withholding my confidence, for it^s a 
strange thing, but true, that the instant I come into your presence I 
feel prompted to confess. You stir that impulse in me the moment I 
look at you, — a thing no one else has ever done.^^ 

If it is only to spare me that you are silent/^ said Mrs. Acland, 
I beg you to speak. I am deeply interested in what you have told 
me about yourself, and I should like to know your decision.^^ 

^^It doesn^t amount to much, and commits me to nothing very 
definite,^^ answered Gladys, still looking at Con, and following the out- 
line of the latter’s childish profile with her finger, from the curly locks 
on the forehead to the dimpled chin, with apparent absorption, an 
operation the child submitted to as willingly as a cat does to stroking. 
Mrs. Acland meanwhile was silent, and in a minute or two Gladys 
went on. 

I had a letter to write,” she said, and I was in doubt what to 

say.” 

^^Was it to the person we were speaking of, — the man you de- 
scribed ?” 

Gladys’s color deepened a very little, and she answered with a nod 
to the mother and a prolonged gaze at the child. 

‘‘J. met him abroad a few months ago,” she presently went on 
again, as if impelled almost against her will to speak out. I thought 
perhaps he wouldn’t persist, but he has ; and you mustn’t suppose I 
regret it. On the contrary, I am very glad, for I know no one that I 
think half so nice. His letter only said that he had come to New 
York, and that, if agreeable to me, he would come on here ; and I 
hesitated for a while what to say. Of course if I told him to come, it 
would imply a good deal, and I really didn’t know at first what I 
wanted to do ; but I wrote finally.” 

And told him to come ?” 

told him he might if he liked. It amounted to the same 

thing.” 

^‘You have decided, then, to accept him?” asked Mrs. Acland, 
quietly. How far from quiet she felt she did not care to show. 

I have decided to let him come, so that I may see how I like him 
on further consideration.” 

You will hardly say no, after that.” 

Hardly. I don’t expect to say no ; but I will if I choose to. I 
don’t know what I may say. Con, what would you say if somebody 
asked you to go away and live with them always, and promised to be 
so good to you and take such care of you and let you do everything 
and have everything in the world that you wanted ?” 

I would go — with mother,” said Con, as if no other applicant 
would have a chance. 

^^And why with mother, darling?” said Mrs. Acland, bending 
lovingly toward her. 

‘‘ Tauthe I love mother and mother lov’th me,” said Con. 

That’s my own precious baby !” said Mrs. Acland, lifting the 
child to her own lap and pressing her a moment to her heart. Now, 
darling,” she said the next moment, releasing her and reaching out for 


308 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


the little white sun-bonnet that lay on the table near by, you may 
run out and play awhile. Mother will call you when it is time for the 
lesson. Mammy is in the yard.^^ She tied the bonnet under the child^s 
chin and kissed her cheek, and Con was running off, when Gladys 
caught her hand. 

‘‘ Come here, you hardened old reprobate,^^ she said, peering into 
the bottom of the snowy sun-bonnet, where Coffs rosy face, suggestive 
of abounding health and abundant soap and water, smiled back at her 
with a look that utterly cast in the shade Sir Joshua^s representation 
of Innocence. I like to be taken a little notice of, if I^m not mother. 
Give me a kiss.^^ 

Wlien Con had complied, and subsequently vanished from sight, 
and the door was closed behind her, Mrs. Acland came to a seat by 
Gladys on the lounge, and said, gravely, as she assumed it, — 

Is this man strongly attached to you f’ 

Gladys lifted her eyebrows and made a little moue. 

Quite sufficiently so,^’ she said. If he were excessively so, I 
should not like it. My highest satisfaction in the contemplation of 
future intercourse with him is in the fact that he has a certain manner 
that assures me that he would always treat me with reserve and delicacy, 
which recommends him to me as nothing else could.’^ 

Mrs. Acland made no answer, and when Gladys looked at her she 
saw that her gaze was averted. 

Against her w’ill, the girl was caught into the strong current of this 
womaffs passionate earnestness. Almost involuntarily she found her- 
self saying, with an eager intensity, — 

^^Do you believef that love can come but once? Did you never 
know the feeling in a slight degree before it came in its complete- 
ness 

It seemed to her watchful eyes that Mrs. Acland paled a little at 
this question, but she spoke quietly, after a short pause : 

I will try to answer the question you have asked me, though you 
have, without meaning it, laid your hand upon a wound which it seems 
to me will never heal. Oh, you do not know,’^ she burst forth with a 
sudden fervor, you can’t imagine, when a woman gives her love to 
the man who has won the right to it, how she longs to be able to feel 
that he possesses every smallest atom 'there ever was of it ! Not in 
quality only, but a//, every fragment of feeling that was ever spent in 
any little way, — the endurance of the slightest hand-pressure, the ac- 
ceptance of a flower which had been offered with any significance, the 
submission to the merest glance of fondnass from another man, and, 
more than all, the entertainment of the possibility of another love.” 

She ceased speaking, and Gladys knew so little what to say that 
she dared not break the silence that hung between them for a time. 
Presently the other went on. 

It is all so long past and over now,” she said, but I cannot bear 
the memory of it yet. There was some one once for whom I entertained 
a decided feeling, — certainly not love : I soon learned to know with 
certainty that it was not that. It was something like what you have 
described as to having all your tastes and fancies satisfied. And the 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


309 


hardest part of it is that he really cared for me. Not, I know, in the 
best way, and I trust not in a way to make him permanently unhappy 
in what followed. He had a passionate, almost desperate nature, hidden 
under a superficial guise of unusual coolness and -repose. Disappoint- 
ment he was wholly unaccustomed to, and the thwarting of his will 
went hard with him ; but my thoughts about it all are full of selfish- 
ness, I fear. When I think of it, it is not to regret the pain he suffered, 
but to recall, with a self-reproof you cannot understand, the things I let 
him say to me that I never should have listened to except from one 
created being, — the hopes I let him have about me which only one man 
ought ever to have held.^^ 

Did you give him any promise said Gladys, deeply interested. 

Were you ever engaged to him 

Never said Constance, vehemently. Never, I thank God! 
But I was like you. I was restless too, and I thought it might fill up 
my life to be married, and he was handsome and well-born and rich 
and attractive, and seemed devoted to me, — though I trust a part of 
that was seeming, — so I tried to make up my mind to marry him, and 
I let him know that I was trying. Oh, it simply terrifies me, even yet, 
to think what might have happened. Every one urged me to it, and I 
seemed drifting along with the stream.’^ 

“ And what held you back, at last asked Gladys, eagerly. 

Mrs. Acland was silent a moment, and then she said, — 

I met with my husband.^^ 

Gladys saw the effort it cost her to utter these words so calmly. It 
was the first time she had spoken of her husband directly, and she 
hoped that, now the effort had been made, it might be a relief to the 
overburdened heart. She wanted to manifest in some way the sympathy 
she felt, and, obeying a strong impulse that came to her, she put her 
arm around the other^s waist and drew her nearer. The lovingness of 
the act, the tender feeling it expressed, were things to which the lonely 
widow had been long unaccustomed. She was too much moved for any 
effort at self-control, and, throwing her head down against her new 
friend^s shoulder, she burst into violent sobs. Gladys drew her closer 
still, and bent to press her lips upon the soft smooth hair, gently 
stroking and patting the poor weak hands that lay prone and helpless 
on her lap, and gradually soothing her into returning calmness. 


CHAPTER IV. 

In the days that followed the interview just recorded. Miss Mont- 
averiPs time was filled to the last moment with engagements of every 
description. Accompanied by her step-mother, she went from one en- 
tertainment to another in rapid succession. 

In a few days she found time, however, to go again to the little 
sequestered cottage which stood within a stone^s throw of her house, 
but which she never crossed the threshold of without feeling that she 
had come all the way into another world. The very sight and smell 


310 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


of the flowers that bordered the garden- walk leading up to the house — 
wall-flowers, cowslips, and such old-fashioned things — seemed to indi- 
cate a different atmosphere from the one she had just emerged from. 
Gladys took all this by way of warning, and tried to realize more earn- 
estly the strong need there was that she should keep herself out of the 
dangerous drift which her former conversations with Mrs. Acland had 
taken. She was anxious, both for her new friend’s sake and her own, 
to continue her intercourse, but she was, at the same time, resolved not 
to succumb to the serious influences in which she felt sure that friend- 
ship would involve her unless she steered her bark into a different 
current. 

The more she thought over the lesson of Constance’s love and life, 
the more did it stand out in strong colors as a warning to her to follow 
the beaten track in which thousands of men and women travelled through 
life without any unbearable grief ; and if she could do this she was 
willing to forego the intoxicating happiness which, if it came, was liable 
at any moment to go out in horrible darkness and pain. Poor Con- 
stance ! If she could have seen into the heart that she was striving to 
educate in the high mysteries of exalted love, she would have found it 
the more prone, by reason of her influence, to cling to the conventional 
limitations and worldly precedents which seemed to her such dust and 
ashes. 

Gladys entered the room and approached her friend with an air of 
gayety. She was handsomely and even elaborately dressed, as she had 
been paying visits, and appeared, far more than Mrs. Acland had ever 
seen her, a fashionable young lady, her whole costume and bearing pre- 
senting a strong contrast to the widow’s sad black robes and expression 
of subdued gravity. It was past the time for Con’s lessons, and the 
child was not in the room. 

Gladys had come on purpose to make to her new friend a commu- 
nication which she would have felt it a breach of trust to withhold, 
and which she yet felt a strange reluctance to disclose. After a few 
days’ interval, which Mr. Locksly had had the adroitness to allow to 
intervene between the receipt of Miss Montaveril’s note and his re- 
sponse to it, he had now written to say that he would arrive in East- 
mere to-morrow evening, and this Gladys felt she ought to tell her 
friend. But somehow the very presence of Constance made her a 
coward. She shrank from the protestations and entreaties that she 
could foresee, and she shrank also from wounding her friend. Of 
course, sooner or later, it must be don^, but she would put off the evil 
moment as long as possible. 

It happened that the evening fixed for the arrival of Mr. Locksly 
was one on which Miss Montaveril had engaged herself to be present 
at a grand fancy-dress ball to be given at one of the hotels. She had 
been just the least bit piqued at the delay of Mr. Locksly’s answer to 
her letter, and it therefore suited her very well to write a note, to be 
given to the young gentleman on his arrival, conveying the information 
that a previous engagement would prevent her being at home to him 
that evening, and requesting him to meet her at the ball. She was not 
as yet entirely decided to marry him, and she found it therefore rather 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 311 

agreeable than otherwise to meet and observe him first in a position 
which would preclude the possibility of confidential conversation. 

I am going to a grand ball to-morrow evening/^ she said, pres- 
ently, breaking the pause that had followed the first greeting of the 
friends, and IVe been trying on my dress this morning. It^s to be a 
fancy-dress ball, and my costume is quite a bewildering affair which I 
happened to see in Paris and bought on general principles, and now it 
comes in beautifully. It is really a lovely thing, and I am quite 
pleased with myself in it.^^ 

What is it said Mrs. Acland, with interest. What character 
are you going to take 

Gladys did not answer at once. A happy thought had just struck 

her. 

Suppose I don’t tell you?” she said. Suppose I come and 
show myself after I am dressed? I really think you would admire 
the dress; and I know Con would think it as pretty as a Christmas- 
tree.” 

In this way she could put off the confidence she had to make until 
it was too late for remonstrance. The idea delighted her. 

Oh, I wish you would !” said Constance. ‘‘ You sweet thing to 
think of it !” 

Mrs. Acland was sincere in the interest she manifested in the thought 
of this young creature’s innocent enjoyment of the ball, and at the same 
time she was anxious to show her appreciation of the other’s friendliness 
in offering to go to this trouble for the sake of Con and herself. Gladys, 
for her part, felt a little reproached by her friend’s gratitude, but she 
was too relieved to let the thought cause her more than a temporary 
annoyance. She went on, in a hurried manner, to speak of how taken 
up she had been in the last few days, and contrived to keep the conver- 
sation in such a channel as precluded the possibility of the grave talk 
she deprecated. She was conscious that it might perhaps be a disap- 
pointment to her friend, but it was wisest to prepare her for what was 
coming. So when Miss Montaveril presently remembered an engage- 
ment which she must hurry away to keep, and rose to take leave, she 
was able to feel that she had been completely successful in her efforts to 
keep the conversation wdthin the limits she had set for it. And when 
she considered also the adroit way she had managed about making her 
communication to her friend, she congratulated herself upon a thoroughly 
satisfactory visit. 

Miss Montaveril went to a dinner that evening, and returned home 
too late for any mental operations more strenuous than dreams ; and so 
she had little time to think about the important arrival about to take 
place. She waked with the thought in her mind next morning, mingled 
with recollections of the evening past and anticipations of the evening 
to come. But the consciousness that she was approaching a crisis in 
her life was rather a burdensome one to her, and she found her thoughts 
continually recurring to Mrs. Acland’s marriage and all the circum- 
stances which had attended it, — a subject that had fascinated her interest 
as much as it had awakened her fears. 


312 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


CHAPTER V. 

Con was allowed to sit up that night in order to see Miss Montaveril 
in her costume for the fancy-dress ball, and great was the expectation 
in the usually quiet little cottage excited by this prospect. Mammy^s 
animation, as usual, was concealed by a very calm exterior, but Con- 
stance’s sweet face showed in some degree a reflection of the eagerness 
written in the child’s as she would spring from her mother’s lap at 
every sound and run to the window to look out. At last the sound of 
wheels was plainly audible, and they stopped before the cottage gate. 
In a moment more, a slender figure tripped lightly up the steps, followed 
by a trim little maid, who swiftly divested her mistress of her domino 
and mask, and Miss Montaveril, in all her splendor, stepped into the 
room. 

The costume was certainly a marvellous achievement of French art, 
and its glittering ornamentations so delighted Con that she fairly danced 
with glee, but Constance, who looked rather at the face than the dress, 
was so transfixed by her friend’s great fairness that for a moment she 
could not speak. Miss Montaveril was pale, but pallor in her was 
never an unlovely thing, and it suited better the costume she wore than 
the brightest of rose-tints could have done. From her little feet, en- 
cased in black stockings and silver slippers, to the line of her low fore- 
head, where a diamond crescent sparkled, she was all vaporous black 
and gleaming silver. Her dress was of a fine diaphanous black texture, 
its transparent, billowy folds studded with scintillating stars and cres- 
cents. Her bare, white arms were covered with silver bangles, with 
here and there among them the flashing of diamonds. A black 
velvet band around her throat supported a succession of pendent stars 
and crescents in diamonds, and the fastening of her low corsage was 
one great diamond with a showery mass of points of light, that imitated 
a brilliant comet. 

The girl’s face was marvellously still and cold, and her eyes, those . 
wonderful, star-like eyes, had more than usual that look as of a soul 
uplifted, althougli at this moment Gladys was nearer than she had ever 
been before to an act that would permanently bind her soul to earth. 

Oh, Gladys !” said Mrs. Acland, presently, her voice breaking in 
upon Con’s raptures wfith a sort of far-off tone, ‘‘ I can hardly de- 
scribe how you look to me, but it isn’t like a figure in a fancy-ball. 
You have the face of a nun.” 

I have been told that before,” said Miss Montaveril, simply, 
showing neither surprise nor disappointment at the strangeness of this 
comment. I believe I could have better played that part. I ought 
to have worn a nun’s costume to-night, instead of all these gewgaws.” 

You look it, more or less, in every dress,” said Constance. I 
have thought it before, but it never came to me with such force. But 
what do you call yourself? Diana, I suppose ? Both face and dress 
are suitable for that.” 

don’t call myself at all,” said Gladys. There was a name 
tacked on to the costume, but I dislike the idea of going labelled. I 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 313 

prefer to leave the point to the imagination. People may call me what- 
ever they choose.^^ 

I tall her Daddith/^ put in Con, with a complacent little grin. 
She had been frequently felicitated on this pronunciation by the owner 
of the name, and she took a certain degree of pride in it. 

Come and give Daddith a kiss, then, and wish her good luck to- 
night,^^ said Miss Montaveril, stooping toward the child and looking 
into her innocent eyes half wistfully, and then, turning toward the 
mother, she drew her a little apart, and, putting her arms around her, 
she said, in a low but steady tone, — 

You must wish me good luck to-night, too, Mrs. Acland. The 
man I told you of has come, and will be at this ball. I have not seen 
him yet, but I wrote him to meet me there.’^ 

The effect of this announcement on Mrs. Acland was instantaneous 
and almost violent. The blood receded from her cheeks, a sort of 
terror came into her eyes, and she clutched her friend around the waist 
as if urged by an instinct to hold on to her. 

What are you going to say to him she asked, her voice posi- 
tively shaking with emotion. Oh, Gladys, don’t refuse to listen to 
me ! You have got a knife in your hand with which I see you tempted 
to take your own life. It will be a worse thing than any physical 
suicide could possibly be. I must try to hold you back. There will 
be no such thing as a return, when once you have taken the first step. 
You do not love, and therefore you must not commit yourself to a 
marriage with this man.” 

The passionate earnestness of her face, to which now a sudden blaze 
of color had come, the fire in her eyes, the strength of her firm grasp, 
the only half-suppress^ed emotion of her voice, agitated Gladys against 
her will. She was terrified at the power this woman had over her. 
Her one impulse was flight, for if she listened any longer to these siren 
tones this voice might draw her where she was determined not to go. 

Tell me what you mean to do,” said Constance, slightly relaxing 
her hold, and beginning to show more fear than resolution in her face. 

‘‘ I am simply going to do whatever the inspiration of the moment 
prompts,” returned Gladys. Don’t distress yourself about me. You 
can’t make me like yourself. It isn’t in me.” 

The tones of her voice chilled her friend, and a shadow fell across 
her face as her hands relaxed their hold and Gladys moved away. 

You haven’t wished me good luck. Con,” she said, going over to 
the child, who had been amusing herself as well as Molly and Mammy 
by trying on the mask and domino. Con turned, as she always did in 
every moment of perplexity, to see what mother would say, and Mrs. 
Acland, lifting her into her arms, whispered softly in her ear, — 

Kiss her, darling, and say, ^ God bless Gladys to-night.’ ” 

The child at once turned to Miss Montaveril, and, putting her arms 
around her neck, kissed her, repeating her mother’s words in a whisper. 
Gladys felt herself instantly touched, but she would not trust herself 
to speak. She only turned a moment to give Mrs. Acland a light kiss, 
and then, taking her scarlet domino from Molly, wrapped it about her 
and vanished into the darkness. 


314 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


The maid followed her down the steps, and at the same moment 
Mammy left the room, and mother and child were alone. 

Oh, Con, Con,’^ said Mrs. Aclaud, fervently, pressing the child 
close to her heart, and speaking to her in trembling, eager tones, what 
would you think of anybody who stood before the open door of heaven 
and put out their hands and shut it and would n^t go in?^^ 

I would do in,^^ said Con, in a matter-of-fact tone, ^^and thee 
father.^^ 

And take poor mother with you, — wouldn’t you? Oh, Con, I 
want to see him so ! It seems so long to wait !” said Constance, hiding 
her face against her child’s bright hair. 

Mindful of her ever-present care not to distress the little creature, 
Mrs. Acland quickly recovered herself, and reminded Con that it was 
long past bedtime, and led her off up-stairs, where Mammy was at work 
making the sweet still room all ready for the night. When the child’s 
evening prayers, always beginning with “ God bless father and mother,” 
had been murmured at Constance’s knee, and the little one kissed and 
tucked in her soft white bed, the mother was about to leave the room, 
when Mammy, with a look of some unwonted feeling on her face, de- 
layed her on the threshold to say, in a low tone, — 

Miss Constance, I thought maybe I better tell you ’bout a thing I 
bin see to-day. I know you don’t like no sounds en sights from out’n 
de work, but seem like I better let you know ’bout dis.” 

‘‘What is it. Mammy? Tell me, of course,” said Constance, the 
weariness of her face relaxing only a little, and no special interest 
in Mammy’s communication showing itself. 

“ Ez I was cornin’ ’long de street dis evenin’,” said Mammy, “ I 
come mos’ face to face with Mr. Locksly.” 

“ Mr. Locksly ! Are you sure ?” said Constance, in a tone of much 
surprise, not unmingled with a certain admixture of annoyance. 

“ Ef I hadn’ bin mighty sure I’d ’a’ hel’ my tongue,” said Mammy. 
“ ’Twarn’ nobody ’tall but Mr. Eeginal’ Locksly hisseff ; though he 
got sorter fatter, en he look some older in de face.” 

“ Well, it can’t matter much to us. Mammy,” said Constance : “ only 
do be careful to get out of his way, if you see him coming any time, 
for he would probably remember you, and of course I’d rather he 
should not even know we are here. And do watch Con, when she is 
about the gate, and don’t let her speak to strange people.” 

She said no more, and passed on down the steps, perturbed more 
than she cared to show by the knowledge that a man who had for a 
short while played a prominent part in her experience should be near 
her again, although she felt herself protected from the danger of meet- 
ing him. As she returned to the empty room so lately pervaded by 
her friend’s presence, her anxieties about this evening’s issue for Gladys 
came back upon her ; but no sooner did this thought present itself than 
a swift mental suggestion connected it with the object of Mammy’s 
communication. It was scarcely a moment before the possibility became 
a certainty in her mind, and the images her fancy conjured up in con- 
sequence were as painful as they were terrifying. There was no manner 
of doubt in her mind that the man who had once so strongly impressed 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


315 


her own thoughts was the one in whom Gladys had described the very 
attributes which had once passed for attractions in her estimation also. 
The facts that Gladys had mentioned about him corresponded exactly 
with her own knowledge, and his having been for a long time living 
abroad confirmed her suspicion beyond the admission of a doubt. She 
began to pace the room excitedly, her memory active with the recollec- 
tions of the influence this man^s powerful personality had once exerted 
over herself. Memories which had slumbered so long that she had 
believed them dead arose in her ; she lived through again the excited 
scenes of their intercourse, and recalled his passionate demand for a 
response to his strong feeling for her, which, although she could not 
give it, had by the man’s very intensity and determination so wrought 
upon her that in her weakness and self-ignorance she had felt herself 
almost powerless to resist him, and she had always felt that, but for 
her having met with her husband just then, her appreciation of the 
man’s personal charms, and the predominance of his strength over her 
weakness, would have perhaps forced her into a belief that she loved 
him and into the untold miseries which would then have followed. 
The throbbing of her heart almost suffocated her, as she thought of it, 
and her passionate relief in her own escape seemed to compel her to 
rescue her friend. True, Gladys was older and more worldly-wise than 
she had been at the time of her subjection to Reginald Locksly’s in- 
fluence, and the man’s attitude toward the two women was different. 
Gladys had evidently known nothing of the passionate imperiousness 
of his strong will, but she might come to know it. Surveyed by the 
coolest judgment, he was a dangerously fascinating man, with a nature so 
masterful, a will so indomitable, that a weak, confused, uncontented girl 
such as Gladys Montaveril was to-night would be but too prone to suc- 
cumb to him, and once she yielded an inch, he would know how to take 
advantage of it. The insight given her by the wider experience of her 
recent years had convinced her that he was not a good man, but that his 
superficial polish and apparent refinement concealed a nature which she 
could believe to be both coarse and cruel. The image of Gladys’s pure- 
eyed, nun-like face and delicate, girlish form seemed to rise up before 
her reproachfully, and the remembrance that she had no mother or 
dear relation to shield and save her, and, more than all, the thought of 
her husband, — of how a sacrifice like that would wound and shock his 
heart, — made her feel willing to go any length if but Gladys could be 
held back, for this night at least, from committing herself to this man. 
Once her word was pledged and the decisive step taken, the case would 
be wellnigh hopeless. But that could not have happened yet. A few 
precious moments remained ; but how to make good use of them ? 

Impossible to send a message that would have the least chance of 
reaching her under her disguise of domino and mask ; and what good 
would a message do, in the mood in which Gladys had left her?* No, 
there was but one way. She must see her and speak to her, and compel 
her reluctant attention. But how could this be done ? She pressed 
her hands against her head and thought intensely. Suddenly her face 
lighted up, as if with a flash of inspiration. She did not stop an instant 
to weigh considerations, but took up a light and swiftly crossed the 


316 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


hall and mounted the stairs, and, passing the room where Mammy was 
nodding in her nightly watch beside Con’s bed, she took her way to a 
small room where there were various trunks and boxes stored away. 
Opening one of these, she presently produced a dark, folded object, 
which on being shaken out proved to be a rather curiously-made black 
silk domino. It had a Ingh, pointed hood, and peculiar long sleeves, 
and a black silk mask fell out of its folds. As Mrs. Acland hastily 
possessed herself of these articles and silently retook her way down- 
stairs, a vivid remembrance of the last occasion on which she had worn 
these articles rushed over her. It had been at a fancy-dress ball where 
she was to meet Mr. Locksly, and she remembered now a little foolish 
act which it gave her a pang of shame to recall. Locksly had begged 
her to give him some token by which he might be able to identify her, 
and she had impulsively taken up a pair of scissors and snipped out of 
the back of her domino a little heart-shaped piece and sent it to him, 
and he had traced her by it at the ball. There was a flavor of coquetry 
and a degree of interest implied in the act that it galled her to remember 
now. She was too absorbed in her purpose, however, to give this trifle 
more than a passing attention, and, reflecting that the heart-shaped hole 
would be secure from notice by reason of the blackness of the garments 
underneath, she hastily put on the mask and domino, drew the hood 
over her head, and quietly crossed the threshold of her safe, secluded 
home and stepped forth into the darkness. 

When she had closed the gate behind her, she paused a moment 
and stood still. Never a woman of any great physical courage, her 
long seclusion from the world and habits of strict retirement had less- 
ened whatever stock of bravery she had once possessed. She would 
have to walk to and from the great hotel alone, and, worse than all, she 
would have to face its blaze of lights and mingle with its throngs of 
people without companionship or protection. In this moment of hesi- 
tation, her eyes, following her thoughts, turned upward. Suddenly she 
felt a sense of both protection and companionship. She seemed to 
realize that her husband saw and sanctioned what she did, and that God 
and His angels would support her in the trying duty she had under- 
taken to perform. Instantly her fears were quieted, and she passed 
swiftly on her way, unconscious of danger, heedless of the possibility 
of detection, and possessed entirely by the importance of the task she 
had in view. Keeping as much as possible in the shadow of the houses 
and trees, she made her way swiftly toward the great hotel, blazing 
with light, ringing with music, and thronged with merry people, 
masked and unmasked, who hurried hither and thither across the porches 
and halls. In this scene of confusion she was quickly lost, mingling 
in the great throng as only one masker the more. Her heart bounded 
with an excited pulsation that made her feel at the same time weak and 
strong. She had a sense of absolute isolation in the midst of this rush- 
ing throng, but the absorption of her purpose nerved her to overcome 
every obstacle that rose in the way of its fulfilment. 

Eagerly scanning the figures that moved about, here and there, be- 
fore her eyes, she felt at first almost hopeless of being able to distin- 
guish among so many scarlet dominos the one she sought ; but she 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


317 


remembered that the peculiar fabric of which the domino was made 
had struck her, and she felt confident that this fact, together with the 
sort of individuality there was in Gladyses bearing, would enable her to 
identify her. She had observed, too, that the girl^s satin mask which 
she had seen Con try on had a frill of silver lace ; and these marks 
would be sufficient. Presently she found her way to a sheltered position 
in a window-recess, which afforded her better opportunity for observa- 
tion, and from there she eagerly scanned the throngs of masked and 
dominoed figures that passed and repassed ; but, although there were 
many scarlet dominos, none of them looked familiar to her. Suddenly 
she became aware that a tall masked figure had invaded her retreat and 
was speaking to her. A terror seized her, and she rushed away, min- 
gling with the crowd, and, for the time being, escaping. Once or twice, 
as she moved through the room, alert and watchful, she was spoken to, 
but by turning a deaf ear and rapidly moving off she managed to free 
herself from these annoyances. Tired of her fruitless quest here, she 
now turned into a long corridor which led toward the dancing-room, 
whence the strains of a familiar waltz-tune fell upon her ear and 
touched a chord of memory that made her heart contract with pain. 
It carried her back to the time when she had danced with her husband 
by this tune, and been as gay and light-hearted as any creature here, 
and happier, she was sure, than any creature here could possibly be. 
That was in the days of their first acquaintance, and her mind glanced 
on to what came after, when the love between them had been perfected 
and they had dwelt apart together in a high world of their own, until 
he had left her, and she had come back to the dark valley of earth 
alone ! Lost in these absorbing thoughts, bewildered by the soft, 
seductive waltz-strain, forgetful of the purpose that had brought her 
here, she was roused by the consciousness that a tall figure in a blue 
domino was walking very near her and apparently accommodating its 
motions to her own. She began to walk more rapidly, and the blue 
domino quickened its pace. Then she lingered, and the domino lin- 
gered too. Really alarmed, she began to look about her for the 
means of escape. Of course no harm could come to her, surrounded as 
she was, but she was in terror at the thought of being recognized, and 
her instinct of flight from this pursuer was so strong that, seeing the 
blue domino had gone a little ahead, she turned out of the stream of 
people and down a short narrow passage that led to a dimly-lighted 
room, the door of which stood partly open. Without pausing to think 
what she was doing, Constance darted down the passage and into this 
room, and, glancing around, she found herself in a sort of housemaid’s 
closet, with brooms and brushes and wooden pails ranged around the 
walls in neat order, only dimly discernible by the lowered gas-jet. 
Recovering herself and realizing what an unauthorized trespasser she 
was, she turned to retrace her steps, when suddenly she heard a soft 
foot-fall, and at the same moment the door was closed, not, however, 
before she had recognized a tall figure in a dark-blue domino, outlined 
against the brilliant light behind. Terrified and trembling, she shrank 
back to the extreme limit of the small room, and stood, breathless with 
suspense, against .the wall. The draped figure now leaned forward to 


318 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


the gas-jet, and turned the light on full. Then, placing himself with 
his back to the door, he said distinctly, though his tones were low and 
guarded, — 

I ask your pardon if I have made a mistake in thinking you are 
some one I know well, and whom I cannot run the risk of losing sight 
of. If I am wrong, and you will satisfy me of it, I will leave you 
at once, with no further justification of my strange conduct than the 
statement I have just made. I will not mention the name of the 
woman I take you to be, because it is possible I am mistaken, but per- 
haps you will tell me if you recognize me.^^ 

He put up his hand, threw back the hood of his domino, and took 
off his mask. As these disguises were removed, Constance, who had 
felt her blood grow cold at the first sound of his voice, uttered a little 
cry and covered her masked face with her hands. Eagerly, scrutiniz- 
ingly, the man’s eyes fastened on those little trembling hands, and a 
look of satisfaction crossed his face, as if he recognized them. He 
clasped his own hands fervently and drew in his breath in a strong, 
deep sigh. 

Constance ! Constance Leigh !” he said, in a voice whose lowered 
tone could not conceal its passionate triumphantness. The liglit of 
youth and joy comes back again the moment I feel your nearness. 
How you have come across my path a second time, I do not ask. I 
loved you once and gave you up. I wandered far away to the ends of 
the earth, where civilization’s echoes even could not reach, and when I 
came back to the world again I did not even ask about you. I thought 
I had conquered that weakness ; but it proves itself too much for me. 
It is not weakness. It is the strength of my life. No one, nothing, 
has ever taken your place with me. It is my fate to love you ) and it 
must be your fate too. What else has given you back to me, in this 
strange way, just when I had made up my mind to adopt the humdrum 
existence that other men live, and get what I could out of life, by going 
on in a decent, respectable way, and doing without love? — for love has 
had no existence for me apart from you.” 

All the time he was speaking the woman crouched against the wall, 
still as a statue, save for a little agitating tremor, whose significance he 
could not guess, which now and then ran through her. He knew the 
singularly-shaped black domino, and had recognized its wearer’s walk 
and carriage before he had had the evidence of those fair little slender 
hands, which could belong to one woman only in the world. Still, it 
was as well to prove the matter, since the means of proof were at 
hand. 

I know you, Constance Leigh,” he said, controlling his voice into 
a calmer tone, as he took a step toward her, and, in order that you 
may know that I know you, I can show you in the back of the domino 
you wear a little mark which we both remember. I know it is there, 
though years have passed since I have seen it.” 

The figure crouched against the wall was motionless still, but now 
as she felt a hand — gently and respectfully enough — laid on her, as the 
man leaned forward and caught the folds of her garment, she sprang 
away from him, as if a viper had stung her. But the hand that held 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


319 


her retained its grasp, and the eager eyes had found the mark they 
sought. As Constance too caught sight of it and felt herself still held 
by that unbearable grasp, she tore the long garment from her, leaving 
it in his hands, and with the same impulse of freedom she wrenched 
the mask from her face and stood erect before him, palpitating, pale, 
defiant, in her piteous widow^s weeds. 

If it had been possible to mistake the meaning of those sad black 
garments, that pallid, care-worn, grief-marked face was enough to tell 
the story. The knowledge that might in another case have given cause 
for hope and exultation came to this man now accompanied by a mean- 
ing in the womarf s eyes that struck a deadly blow to passion and showed 
him, at a glance, the great chasm that opened between this woman who 
stood three paces from him and himself. He turned his eyes away from 
her. The face he saw Vas Constance Acland’s, sad, grief-stricken, pale, 
— not the rosy, happy, youthful face of Constance Leigh. He saw that, 
after all, he was mistaken. 

All this time he had kept his position between his prisoner and the 
door, but now he moved aside. 

I will detain you no longer,^^ he said. You are at liberty to 

^^Not until you have gone before me,^^ she said, holding herself 
erect and looking at him with a glance of fearless scorn. I would 
not take a step toward you, even to escape from the cowardly imprison- 
ment you have enforced upon me. I suppose release will come in 
time from some quarter, and I would rather wait for it than make any 
appeal to a man who has been so deaf to the appeal of a woman^s help- 
lessness.^^ 

The man attempted no response. He was willing enough to escape 
from a scene that galled him to the core. He took up the mask that 
had fallen from his hand, put it on, drew the hood of his domino over 
his head, and left the room. The instant Constance found herself 
alone, she hurriedly restored her mask and domino also, and then, 
pausing a moment to collect her confused senses, she tried to resolve on 
what her next step should be. She had not yet seen Gladys, and the 
necessity for doing so was stronger now than ever, and yet she felt too 
utterly prostrated and wretched to make the effort. Her longing was 
to escape from this scene of tumult and excitement and fly to her own 
little quiet home, where Con and Mammy were, wdth Arthur^s grave 
near by. Oh, if she could only get a word with Gladys first, and then 
fly off to that safe refuge ! But how could this be done ? 

A few moments later, safe behind her disguise, she was mingling in 
that rushing throng again. It seemed an age since she had left it, and 
yet how few the moments had been, in reality ! The band in the ball- 
room was playing the same waltz. The sound of it sickened her. 
The memories it brought back were more than she could bear. She 
turned away from the sound, into a long corridor which she hoped 
might lead out of the hotel and into the silent night. She felt almost 
powerless to continue her quest longer. But it happened that on this 
corridor there were some private parlors and apartments occupied by 
some of the guests of the hotel, and just emerging from one of these 

VoL. XLL- 21 


320 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


Constance caught sight of a scarlet domino and recognized the figure 
she had so long been in search of. She drew back a moment, behind a 
curtained window, and waited. The parlor was occupied, at present, 
by a white-haired old lady, who stood in the background smiling and 
bidding adieu to three visitors who had evidently turned aside from 
the crowded ball-room to pay her a visit. Two of these visitors were 
tall young officers in splendid military uniforms, who had evidently 
come to the ball in their proper persons, as there were no signs of mask 
or domino about them. The third was Gladys, who had removed her 
disguises for a time, probably to show herself in all her black and 
silver splendor to the old lady. She was now about to reassume them, 
and as she stood in the brilliant light just within the door-way, the 
magnificent young officers on either side of her, the group made a 
charming picture. One of the young men carried her mask, bouquet, 
and fan, while the other held behind her the scarlet domino which she 
was reaching back to receive upon her shoulders. Her face was turned 
aside to answer some remark the old lady had made, and the eyes of 
both young men were fixed upon her with just the looks of reverential 
regard that the sight of a beautiful young girl like this ought to inspire. 
Each had the air of being sensibly honored by the service they were 
rendering, and Gladys, with her Diana^s crescent on her brow, seemed 
created to accord favors and accept homage. 

When the scarlet domino had been fastened on, and the silver- 
bordered mask restored, the two young men turned to take leave of 
the old lady, and Gladys stepped out into the hall. Constance saw her 
chance. Gliding from her place, she came close to the red domino, and 
whispered hastily in her ear, — 

Avoid seeing Mr. Locksly alone to-night. Don’t commit your- 
self to anything. You will know why to-morrow.” 

She had no time for more. The young officers were approaching, 
and so, swiftly turning down the first passage-way she saw, she made 
her way somehow, by what means she never could remember, out into 
the star-lit night. She knew little of how she reached home, or 
whether she met any one or not. The first full consciousness that came 
to her was when she found herself alone in her own little quiet home, 
in the room where she and Arthur used to sit together in the days 
when she was happy in the love and safe in the protection of her hus- 
band. Here was the sofa they had sat upon hour after hour, hand in 
hand, and talked of their inalienable union, which death should be as 
powerless as life to break. And where was Arthur now? He had 
been once ! His picture, that bore witness to his having lived in palpa- 
ble, visible form, was in its little worn case, in lier pocket. His grave, 
which held his very body, was yonder on the hill. His living child, 
that had derived her life from him and looked at her with Arthur’s 
eyes and smiled at her with Arthur’s smile, was asleep in her little 
white bed up-stairs ; and Arthur was dead, dead, dead ! What that 
meant she knew not. She only knew that it was true. Arthur’s love, 
the most living thing that ever was, — that had made all other human 
feeling seem dead to her, — was dead now too. Arthur’s spirit, that 
had promised to watch over and be with her forever, must be dead too, 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


321 


or why had it not burst its bonds and come to her to save her from the 
mortal insult she had suffered to-night, when a man whose presence 
was pollution to her had dared to speak such words to Arthur’s wife ? 
Oh, it was hard to believe that if her husband lived, in any distant 
sphere of heaven, he could have kept away from her then. No, 
Arthur was dead. His dear strong arms that were once all-powerful 
to protect and to avenge her were folded over his breast, under the 
earth up yonder, in the spot to which she carried flowers, and Arthur’s 
soul must be as dead as Arthur’s body ! A sense of awful loneliness 
swept over her, such as she had never felt before, and she lay there 
prone upon the lounge, quivering with agony. She felt herself for- 
saken. She believed she was alone. God and heaven seemed far 
beyond her grasp ; the path ahead looked as hopeless to her as that 
behind. 

It was not for very long that she was left to grovel in this place of 
outer darkness. After a while the cloud, she knew not how, was lifted. 
She remembered Con, and was thankful for her. She remembered 
David and Mammy and the human love that still remained to her. 
Gradually the fact penetrated her consciousness that Mammy might 
wonder at her absence and come to look for her. She was utterly ig- 
norant of how long she had been away, but the importance of conceal- 
ment came over her strongly. She had very few secrets from Mammy, 
but no one must know of this night’s experience, unless it should be 
necessary to tell Gladys, and that she hoped might be avoided. She 
was certain her whispered words could not have betrayed her, and she 
trusted that, in some way, she might never be forced to undergo the 
pain of confessing the events of this night to any one. 

She rose from the lounge, and stood up, drawing in her breath with 
a long and labored inspiration and breathing it forth again in a fervent 
‘‘ God help me,” which was an offering of a renewed heart and a re- 
kindled faith in God, in heaven, and in Arthur’s still living love. 
Rolling the domino and mask together, she went softly up the stairs 
and restored them to the trunk from which they had been taken. Then 
she went to her quiet chamber, where Con was sleeping peacefully, with 
faithful Mammy nodding at her side. Constance bent an instant above 
her sleeping child, and then turned her gentle gaze upon the old negress 
in her big chair, her turbaned head dropping forward now and then 
with the restless jerks that always accentuated Mammy’s evening naps. 
The numbness in the poor young. widow’s heart was thawing fast be-' 
neath the sweet influences of human feeling, and she felt a sudden sense 
of restoration to the presence of God and His good angels, and of 
Arthur, wherever the safe secure place might be in which he waited 
for her. 

She laid her hand softly on the old woman’s shoulder. 

‘‘ Mammy,” she said, do go to bed. Dear old Mammy, you must 
be so sleepy. You good, good Mammy, what would Con and I do 
without you ? Surely God is very good to give you to us.” 

And so it came to pass that, after all the bitterness and darkness of 
this night, Constance found a sense of peace and went to her night’s 
rest with a quiet, trusting heart. 


322 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


CHAPTER VI. 

Mils. Acland was a little earlier than usual at her husband^s 
grave next morning, and the prayer she uttered, as she fell on her knees 
beside it, was as fervent as it was brief. She did not feel inclined to 
linger here, for she had something to do for Arthur this morning, — 
something that she could hear the voice from that dear grave crying 
out to her to do, and do quickly. She kissed his name on the cold 
stone, but felt no chill from the contact, as she had often done before. 
Arthur seemed nearer and living while Arthur^s spirit was animating 
her as it did now. 

On leaving the grave-yard she walked rapidly to Miss MontaveriPs 
house, mounted the steps with a resolute bearing, sent for Molly, and 
had herself announced to her young lady. Molly, obeying her orders, 
went to Gladys and waked her from a sound sleep, to say that Mrs. 
Acland would like to speak to her at once. 

In a feAv minutes Constance was summoned, and, passing up the 
grand staircase and across a great upper hall, she saw Gladys, standing 
on the threshold of a blue-draped boudoir, clad in a soft dressing-gown 
of pale rose-color, with a silver-backed brush in her hand, with which 
she was brushing out the thick masses of her wavy hair. She turned 
her sweet face, fresh from its cold bath, to Constance to kiss, and then, 
throwing an arm around her, led her into the sumptuous little room, 
with its rich hangings of silk and lace, its exquisite china, dainty pictures, 
luxurious furniture, and numberless charming effects of color and form. 
As they crossed the room thus, Constance caught sight of herself and 
her surroundings in a large mirror, and exclaimed, half involuntarily, — 

I look like a great ink-spot on a fair page, — don’t I ?” And in- 
deed her heavy black dress and dense crape veil made a strange contrast 
to the things about her. 

Gladys’s answer was to put both pink-clad arms around the sad 
black figure and draw it close against her heart, and as she felt herself 
held thus Mrs. Acland spoke, in a voice low with feeling. 

Gladys,” she said, “ I have something very important to say to 

you.” 

Don’t be solemn, please, dear,” said Gladys, drawing her down on 
a deep-blue divan, ^^and don’t make me solemn. I don’t want to be. 
You mustn’t expect me to take myself seriously. I couldn’t if I would, 
and indeed, dear, lAvouldn’t if I could.” 

Mrs. Acland w^as silent, looking away from the girl at her side. 
She wanted a moment to think. She had decided, before coming here, 
to say nothing to Gladys about her last evening’s experience, because 
she found it almost impossible to rehearse a scene that had cut so deep 
into her most sacred consciousness, and also because she shrank from 
wounding the womanly pride of her friend by revealing, without abso- 
lute necessity, the full measure of the falseness of the man who pre- 
tended to be her lover. 

Presently she turned, and, taking both the young girl’s hands in 
hers, she looked searchingly into her eyes and said, — 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


323 


I am not going to ask you questions, for I see you are not in the 
mood to answer me seriously. I am merely going to state to you cer- 
tain facts. In the first place, the man you expected to meet at the 
ball last night, and whom you are thinking of marrying, is Reginald 
Locksly.^^ 

A look of amazement, followed by a swift flush, assured her tliis 
was true, but she did not pause appreciably before going on. 

In the next place, Gladys,^^ she said, Reginald Locksly is the 
man I have told you of, who once occupied the place of a possible 
future husband to me also, and the utter thankfulness I feel at having 
been saved from a fate so terrible compels me to the strongest effort I 
am capable of to rescue you. He is not a good man, Gladys. I know 
what I am saying when I tell you he is incapable of a high and un- 
selfish affection. He is overbearing, unscrupulous, false-hearted, — and 
worse. In spite of his exterior polish, he is both coarse and cruel. I 
should say to any woman in the world that she had better choose death 
a thousand times than the life that would be hers in the close and ir- 
revocable bond of marriage with such a man ; but when it is you — my 
friend, my sweet, pure, delicate, tender Gladys — whom this danger 
threatens, I feel that I would dare anything to hold you back from such 
a fate.^^ 

Gladys drew herself upright, and, meeting her friend’s eyes steadily, 
said, in a firm voice, — 

^^I know you mean me nothing but kindness and tenderness by 
what you are doing, but I believe you are mistaken. If the Reginald 
Locksly you knew years ago was a bad and untrustworthy man, then 
he is not the Reginald Locksly I know now. As to your doing me a 
favor by preventing this marriage, there you are mistaken too. If my 
further knowledge of him confirms my opinion and disproves yours, — 
which of course is a point to be definitely settled before I give him any 
promise, — that much you have accomplished, your warning has made 
me more cautious, — why, then I intend to marry him. I want to 
marry him !” she exclaimed, abruptly. I want to escape from this 
hideous commonplace life with my step-mother, who often drives me to 
the verge of madness with her stupidity and frivolity. It may be 
simply a marriage of convenience. Well, I don’t deny it. Everybody 
expects me to make a marriage of convenience. It is the custom with 
girls of my station in life.” 

Then let it be a custom honored in the breach instead of the ob- 
servance !” exclaimed Constance^ fervently. Oh, Gladys, you have 
something in you too high for this.” 

Bless your dear, loving heart !” said Gladys, looking at her with 
a warm affection in her eyes, I have never had any one to care for me 
in this way before, and I suppose that is what makes me feel that you 
are more my friend than all the friends I ever had before put together. 
But don’t expect too much of me : you’ll be disappointed if you do. 
Don’t — excuse the homely phrase — try to get blood out of a turnip. I 
really haven’t in me the fine feelings you are always trying to extract, 
and you might squeeze and punch and puncture forever, and you’d get 
nothing better than turnip-juice at last. It seems to me my reasons for 


324 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


wishing to marry Mr. Locksly are admirable : but there is one, and 
that a very important one, which heretofore I have not mentioned to 
you. Mr. Locksly is rich, which may seem to you perhaps a very 
low consideration, but 

^^Not at all,^’ said Constance, interrupting her; ^^or rather it seems 
to me exactly on a level with the other reasons you have given, — neither 
higher nor lower.’^ 

Gladys colored, and a momentary glimmer of resentment flashed 
from her eyes, but she controlled the feeling and went on quietly : 

You have not heard me out. I am quite above such a thiiig as 
marrying for money, in the ordinary meaning of the phrase, but, having 
myself a large fortune, I have been continually troubled by the fear 
that I should be sought after for that, instead of for myself. I am sure 
some of the men who have wanted to marry me have been influenced 
by this, and I have suspected others of it, possibly without reason. But 
with Mr. Locksly that consideration doesn’t enter into the question, as 
he has money enough to be beyond the reach of such an influence.” 

I exceedingly doubt that, but it would do no good to argue the 
point. Tell me this : did you see Mr. Locksly last night ?” 

No; I don’t think he was there. I am expecting a call from him 
this morning. Oh, if I can make up my mind to marry him 1 shall 
be so thankful. I have to endure the present conditions until I am 
married. I assure you that form of words ^ until I am married’ throws 
a borrowed lustre around the event itself. It means, to me, escape 
from my present almost intolerable environment. Don’t think any- 
thing unkind of Eloise; she means as well as a human being could, 
but she jars upon every nerve I possess. I suppose you can form no 
idea of what an intercourse like that is.” 

^^Yes, I can,” said Constance, suddenly. Her tone had grown 
sweet and her face tender, from some inward prompting of the heart. 

I can fancy what it is, by looking on the reverse of the picture, — by 
glancing backward over those years in my own experience in which 
each day was passed in a companionship that had for every moment 
the supply for every moment’s need, — that was day and night, summer 
and winter, my inspiration, my support, and my joy, — that answered 
every longing of my heart, the small no less than the great, — that felt 
for all my sorrows, whether they were great bereavements or petty 
vexations, — that held continually before my gaze my highest, truest 
self and made it seem worth any pain and trial to struggle after and 
attain to it, — that created a high atmosphere, in which whatever was 
base in me could not live, and yet, in dying, changed its form and» 
passed into new impulses of hope and faith, — that could rejoice as ade- 
quately in my joy as it could grieve in my distress, — that was just one 
long sweet dream of happiness and peace and safety, enlarging my 
heart so much, at times, that it saw and felt heaven itself, and seemed 
strong enough to endure all that God could send of sorrow and pain, 
because there always remained at the end the prospect of an eternity of 
such companionship in heaven.” 

Her rapt face and trembling tones had shown a continually increas- 
ing emotion as she spoke, and when she ended, her voice was hoarse 


HONORED IN THE BREACH, 325 

with tears. Gladys had followed her with an intense interest, which 
now betrayed itself in eager words. 

Heaven ! God ! Eternity P she said. I cannot take hold upon 
those things. I sometimes try, but the effort comes to notliing. It 
never seems a reality to me that I have the possibility of one day en- 
tering a place which I can form no higher estimate of than to picture 
it as unlike to this world I live in now as any place can be, — a place 
where every condition of existence will be so changed that we ourselves 
will need to become other selves to live in it. That indeed would be a 
joyful thought, for I am as sick of myself as I am of this disappoint- 
ing world I live in 

Oh, how different from the thought of heaven that I have had 
said Constance, her sweet face aglow, her soft voice thrilling with feel- 
ing. Often in the past, when Arthur and I have sat together by the 
fireside of our little home, our hands clasped close, our darling child 
asleep near by, — how often have I feared that heaven would no£ be 
enough like earth, — that the conditions of life for the redeemed and 
pardoned would resemble too little those of poor struggling humanity 
on earth, which, in spite of all the pain and struggle, is yet capable of 
such supreme blessedness and delight ! I told Arthur about this feel- 
ing once, half timidly, because his thoughts about these things were 
always very high, but he did not rebuke me. He said it was a very 
human feeling, and that our human natures were from God, and He 
would surely allow for their weaknesses. I remember he said, too, that 
it was hardly possible but that we should rate higher than the as- 
surance of absolute bliss our own conception of bliss. Our conception 
of bliss, — his and mine, — he said, was an eternity of the companionship 
of each other and our child, in the presence of God and the angels, 
with all sin and sorrow and fear of parting forever banished. This, 
he said, was, by the very conditions of our creation, more precious to 
us than simply to know that we would be supremely happy, without 
knowing what the conditions of our happiness would be. He believed 
God meant us to look forward to the perpetuation in eternity of the 
purest and most elevating joys we had known on earth.^^ 

Oh, Mrs. Acland,^^ cried Gladys, as she paused, it will give you 
pain to hear it, but I can^t help telling you that I wouldn’t for all the 
world have your experience. I believe in your joy, dear, I believe in 
the beautiful happiness you have described to me, but the more I realize 
it the more do I desire for myself a different fate. I would not love 
as you have loved, or be loved as you have been loved, for all the 
transient, fleeting joy a human heart could hold. It would be no joy 
to me — only pain — to live a life like that, knowing that the end must 
come. It is too terrible a thought to contemplate.” 

‘^Does it seem terrible in me?” said Constance, her face illumined 
with a radiant light. ^^Do I seem wretched and miserable and hope- 
less ? I declare to you it is not so. If at times I do feel sad and de- 
spondent, and weary of the long, long waiting, let me take the blame 
for it and own the truth, — that it is because I am miserably false to 
the high faith I learned from the blessed one God gave me to be my 
companion awhile, until he had shown me the way to Him, — whose 


326 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


faith was so strong and availing that he closed his dear eyes on his 
wife and child forever, for this world, with a perfect resignation to the 
sweet will of God, whom he trusted to restore them to him for eternity. 
Oh, don^t, I beg you, Gladys, be misled by my weak faith. I want 
you to understand that I am a wretched, feeble exponent of an all- 
powerful and availing faith that is strong enough to bid defiance to the 
grave. Arthur could have shown you this and made you take hold 
of it. I believe he could have made you comprehend what a true 
Christian marriage is, in a way that would have made it impossible 
for any other to satisfy you. He would have longed as ardently as 
I do, to make the attempt, and he would have succeeded where I have 
failed 

The tears rose to her eyes and choked her voice as she ended and 
got up, as if to go. Gladys stood up too, and put her arms around her 
friend and drew her nearer, with a motion full of affection. 

Don’t say you have failed, my dear, good friend,” she said. I 
do see how beautiful it is. You have not failed in your effort to show 
me that. But I have not your strong faith, and neither have I your 
high nature. These things are not for every one.” 

Ah, how often Arthur used to say that ! — that the higher mys- 
teries were revealed to the few ! He thought that he and I were bound 
to give thanks for a peculiar blessing in our marriage. I do wonder,” 
she went on, with a new impulsiveness in her voice, if he would feel 
as I have done from the first, that you were set apart for this high 
destiny. I never had the feeling about but one other person, and I 
will not believe I can be mistaken. 

I must leave you now,” she added. I will exact no promise 
from you, but I leave you the memory of what we have talked about 
to think upon, and I ask you, Gladys, in the name of the love I bear 
you, and in the name of the mother who once yearned over the thought 
of your future as I now yearn over Con’s, — the mother who may be 
watching every step of your way from heaven, — and, more than all, I 
ask you in the name of the highest that is in you, to give me your 
confidence in this present juncture of your life, and to commit your- 
self to nothing without telling me. Do not refuse me this, dear 
Gladys.” 

She had spoken with intense earnestness, and she now paused almost 
breathlessly for a reply. 

I promise you with all my heart,” said Gladys, and you must 
never doubt that I thank you heartily for coming to me now. I know 
it cost you something to do it.” 

^^It cost me nothing,” said Constance, ^^or at least I did not stop to 
count the cost. It would have been much harder to stay away. I shall 
be incessantly thinking of you until I see you again, and if you have 
an interview with — the person we have spoken of, let me know as soon 
as possible what occurred. You will do this, will you not?” 

Gladys willingly gave the promise, and Mrs. Acland went on : 

^‘What I most desire is that you shall yourself perceive, by the 
light within your own soul, the absolute unworthiness of this man. I 
could prove to you, if I chose, that my estimate of him is a true one. 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


327 


but I would far rather you should see it for yourself. It belongs to my 
feeling about you that the nobility of your own nature must reject a 
thing so utterly beneath your acceptance as a pretence of love like that. 
If I see you in danger I shall tell you all I know, but at present I feel 
a wonderful confidence in leaving you to your own best instincts and 
insight. I do feel that the eyes of your soul have been opened, to some 
extent, by the things I have been able to reveal to you ever so im- 
perfectly. They never can be perfectly revealed except by one thing 
only, and that is 

Oil, I know,^^ broke in Gladys : to fall in love ! But I don^t 
want to fall in love, and I don^t mean to.^^ 

What you want, what you mean, your small desires and weak in- 
tentions, will matter little when the supreme moment of your life shall 
come ; and come it will ! Bemember what I say. You would have 
Love to be your slave, advancing or retreating at your bidding, but it is 
not so that he will come. Love is master ; he makes his own terms, 
and you cannot choose but obey.^^ 

She bent to kiss her friend, and was turning away, when a sudden 
thought arrested her, and she paused to say, — 

There is one thing I have forgotten. In case the interview we 
expect takes place to-day, you must on no account mention that you 
know me, or allude to me in any way whatever. It would be most 
painful to me. If, by any chance, my name is mentioned,^ now, or in 
the future, I trust you to betray no consciousness concerning me. It is 
a remote contingency, but I could not be content without this promise 
from you.^^ 

The promise, of course, was immediately given, and in another 
mornent Mrs. Acland had drawn her veil over her face and moved off 
down the staircase. 

She walked homeward preoccupied and thoughtful, but not, on the 
whole, dissatisfied. She knew her friend had been strongly moved, and 
she felt certain that, let her try as she might to thrust from her the im- 
pressions of that morning^s talk, she w^oiild not be successful. She cast 
a swift glance upward to the far-off, clear blue heavens, as she had a 
way of doing when she was thinking in any special way of her hus- 
band. It was a kind of silent appeal to his approval and protection, 
and she always felt as if he saw and understood it. 


CHAPTER VII. 

At as early an hour as it was permissible to call upon a young 
lady who had been up late at a ball the night before, Mr. Locksly be- 
took himself to Miss MontaveriFs cottage and sent up his card. 

The scene with Mrs. Acland last night had been followed by a 
strong reaction, and he was, in consequence of that scene, more anxious 
than he had ever been before to come to an understanding with Miss 
Montaveril and have the point settled that she was to marry him. No 
living man, however vain and self-confident, could have cherished for a 


328 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


moment the belief that he could possibly make himself acceptable to a 
woman who had looked at him as Mrs. A eland had looked last night, 
and when once he was fully convinced that he could never be anything 
but an object of scorn to this woman, who, of all the women he had 
ever met, had fired his emotion and excited his feelings most, his im- 
pulse was to stifle every recollection of her as promptly and effectually 
as it could be done. And a speedy marriage with Miss Montaveril 
suggested the promptest and most effectual means of doing this. In 
the reaction 'of cold anger that had come over him as he retired to his 
room in the hotel, directly after leaving Mrs. Acland, he distinctly 
thanked his stars that this w^oman maintained still a power of resisting 
him such as he had never before met with in any woman he had set his 
mind on pleasing. The explanation of this self-gratulation lay in the 
fact that he knew Mrs. Acland to be poor, in his sense of that elastic 
term, and the fortune of the woman he should marry was not now the 
matter of indifference to him that it had been when he first knew Con- 
stance and wanted to marry her, or that the woman he wanted to 
marry now supposed it to be. The reckless expenditures of recent 
years had made a deep inroad into his once considerable fortune, a fact 
he was keenly anxious to conceal, and the means of concealing which 
lay, as he believed, just within his grasp. What a piece of boyish 
folly, then, would it not have been to let this golden opportunity, with 
all its agreeable accompaniments, such as immediate worldly advance- 
ment, and feeling himself envied by every man he knew, slip from his 
fingers for the sake of gratifying a mere whim for a woman who, for 
some absolutely inexplicable reason, possessed the power to enthrall his 
senses and kindle his emotion such as no one else had ever liad ! That 
woman, moreover, as he reflected now, was the Hebe-like, blooming, 
youthful Constance Leigh, and not the pale, saddened, careworn, if 
still lovely, creature who had suddenly revealed to his expectant eyes, 
that had forgotten to allow for the changes of those full-fraught years, 
the far different face of Constance Acland. The ravages of time and 
sorrow on that sensitive impressionable face had done almost as much 
to bring him to his senses as the repellent anger of her austere eyes. 

Well, whatever the means had been, he had quite recovered him- 
self, and it was with a very business-like and wary air that he set him- 
self, the morning after the ball, to glean such particulars as he could of 
Mrs. Acland^s manner of life at Eastmere. The story, as it was cur- 
rently known, was told to him by an old acquaintance, a sort of pro- 
fessional watering-place gossip, whose revelations had the satisfactory 
effect of completely reassuring him on the score of any possible meet- 
ing with Mrs. Acland, and his own consciousness convinced him that 
there was no danger that the particulars of the encounter at the ball 
would ever pass her lips. How she had happened to be there was, of 
course, a mystery, but he knew from the character of the costume that 
had been revealed when her domino was removed that some special 
errand had brought her, which it had been her purpose to discharge 
before the time for unmasking should come. This, for the present, 
was all that he could gather, and it was enough for his purposes. He 
was lieartily ashamed of the puerile weakness that had carried him 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 329 

such lengths last night, and commensurately pleased that no one was 
likely to know what an absolute fool he had been. 

Miss Montaveril was in the morning-room with her step-mother 
when Mr. Locksly^s card was brought in. She betrayed no emotion 
as she took it, and, after glancing her eye over it, turned it to the elder 
lady, saying, quietly, — 

Will you come with me into the drawing-room?^^ 

No ; Vm busy with the papers at present, answered Mrs. Mont- 
averil, who had been informed of Mr. Locksly’s arrival at Eastmere. 
^‘Tell him to come in here and speak to me before he goes away. 
And, tell me, shall I ask him to dinner?’^ 

If you like,^^ said Gladys ; but not en famille. Ask him with 
the otlier people who are coming next week ; and don’t make a fuss 
over him, Eloise, I beg of you. I hate to see men spoiled ; and Mr. 
Locksly gets too much of it as it is. Don’t seem too pleased to see him.” 

Miss Montaveril was still a little piqued at the somewhat indifferent 
manner her suitor had shown, and she was quite resolved that he should 
have no opportunity of taking things for granted. 

Having thrown out these hints to her step-mother, with full confi- 
dence that they would be regarded, Gladys crossed the hall and entered 
the long drawing-room, cool and pleasant in its orderly dimness. Mr. 
Locksly was standing with his back to her, looking up at a picture, but 
he heard the first light sound of her footstep in the room, and, trans- 
ferring his hat and stick to his left hand, he came forward at once, 
holding out his right, and looking at her with a glance that was the 
perfection of dignified homage. If he had been the least bit too 
eager or too ardent, it would have jarred irretrievably upon Miss 
Montaveril’s present mood, which, to tell the truth, was not a very 
soft one. 

Very well, thank you, and not more tired than I deserve to be,” 
she said, in answer to his first solicitous inquiries. A great crush like 
that is an infinite piece of folly; don’t you think so? But you were 
of the wise ones who stayed away.” 

Not for any such reason as that,” he answered. I dared to dis- 
obey your wish because it went against all my previous visions to have 
to meet you again, after this long absence, under such circumstances as 
would compel me to share with a dozen other men the privilege of being 
near you and talking to you. That was my reason.” And then, seeing 
that she looked not wholly convinced, he added, earnestly, You will 
believe this, I hope ?” 

Oh, yes,” said Gladys, lightly, I will believe anything you like : 
I am in a credulous frame of mind this morning.” 

Locksly looked at her keenly. Then, I wonder,” he said, tenta- 
tively, if it would be a strain to your credulity if I asked you to 
believe far more than this, — to realize, in fact, that I have come these 
several thousands of miles possessed by one absorbing desire, — to be in 
your presence again. Do you believe that or not ?” 

Not,” said Gladys, promptly ; but I think none the less of you 
for it.” 

Ah ! I do not understand,” said Locksly, interested and alert. 


330 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


I mean that I have a conviction that if you liked me more I 
should like you less/^ 

‘^And does your conviction work both ways? If so, my regard 
for you diminishes from this minute. By the next time I see you I 
promise that I will positively dislike you, and then, if you keep faith 
on your part, what must be the result 

Gladys laughed. She was conscious of feeling pleased and inter- 
ested. She had no objection to love-making that took this form. 

If we each fulfil our parts,^^ she said, and I go on liking you 
more in proportion as you go on liking me less, why, the result is, we 
keep our distance.^^ 

But with an exchange of places. You are to like me more every 
hour : remember that.^^ 

And you, for your part, to like me less 

Ah, now you put a strain upon my credulity that it quite refuses 
to bear,^^ said Locksly. The consequence is, it quite gives way : so 
I decline to believe that part. My mind will not grasp a possibility so 
impossible.^^ 

He moved his chair slightly, as he ceased to speak, and placed him- 
self a little nearer to her. She did not feel afraid that he was going to 
make love to her in any less abstract manner than the one he had 
already assumed, and she was sufficiently entertained by this light banter 
not to object to his nearer presence. 

I have been thinking, as IVe watched you tliis morning,^^ he said, 
what an extraordinary facility you have for changing from white to 
red. I know it is your nature to be white, as much as it is the lily^s, 
only lilies don’t blush : they would be much more charming if they 
did. And how the color comes and goes in your face !” • 

I often turn red like that,” said Gladys, annoyed to find herself 
most unwillingly suiting the action to the word, without the slightest 
reason for it. Sometimes I have a romantic notion that it comes from 
some irregularity of the heart.” 

Alas, I fear not !” said Locksly. Your heart, it seems to me, is 
all too regular, — so quiet and controlled, in fact, that the man who, look- 
ing in your face, might risk his soul’s existence on the chance of stirring 
that cold heart, might try with all the ardor he is capable of and yet 
not move its pulses to a quicker beat. This is how I feel about you. 
Miss Montaveril, and this is why, after having crossed the ocean to see 
you, I find myself, on my part, controlled enough now to say nothing 
more to you than that I hope you find Eastmere amusing, and that I 
wish you a very good afternoon.” 

He rose to his feet. Was it possible he was going ? There was a 
mixture of jest and earnest in his tones that greatly piqued his com- 
panion’s curiosity. He was actually bowing his farewell, when Gladys 
arrested him by saying, — 

Eloise would like to speak to you ; she is in the morning-room. 
Can you go in and see her a moment?” 

By all means,” answered Mr. Locksly, promptly. I shall be 
charmed.” 

Gladys led the way across the hall, and ushered Mr. Ijocksly into 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


331 


the presence of her step-mother, who rose to greet him, with some in- 
ward astonishment at the brevity of his interview with Gladys, who, 
for her part, was perfectly aware of this feeling and was herself a little 
annoyed. She really did like talking with Mr. Locksly, and there was 
no comfort to her in any conversation in which her step-mother took 
part, for the reason that she had an inveterate habit of lugging in the 
topics that interested herself and thrusting aside such as interested 
others. 

When Mr. Locksly had greeted her, he seated himself and fell into 
a strain of fluent talk so entertaining that even Mrs. Montaveril for 
once gave herself up to listening, and did little more than make the 
appropriate responses and signify her warm appreciation by frequent 
little applauding laughs and nods. Mr. Locksly did not again address 
himself directly to Gladys, who, for her part, said little. At the end of 
almost an hour so spent, she was conscious of having been delightfully 
entertained, and in addition to this consciousness there was another one 
which was both unflattering and inspiring. Mr. Locksly, she perceived, 
was not under any very strong spell regarding herself, and she thought 
with some exhilaration that it might be interesting to see whether she 
could not rouse him a little from this rather insubordinate attitude he 
had taken. 

What a perfectly delightful man exclaimed Mrs. Montaveril, 
when the door had closed behind him. When he really chooses, 
there is no one who can be so agreeable. And how nice-looking he is ! 
Who wouldn^t rather look like that than be the handsomest man of his 
day ! And certainly I never saw any man so well dressed. No one 
could look at him without being struck by it.’^ 

Do you call that being well dressed ? I do not, certainly,^^ said 
Gladys. It implies a sort of aggressive resplendency that is the last 
thing to be desired, — especially in a man. A man, to be well dressed, 
should wear clothes that create no impression on the mind whatever, 
for, of course, if they were out of taste they would.^^ 

She did not stay to argue the point with her step-mother, but soon 
went off to her own room, which she entered in a frame of mind which 
was the one of all others she had least calculated on. She had gone 
into the drawing-room resolved to prevent a declaration, and now she 
found herself astonished at her complete and speedy success. Still, 
there was no misconstruing his intentions, and she had no doubt that 
he would be ardent enough, perhaps too ardent, 'before long. She felt 
interested in conjecturing how she would behave when that time should 
come, in revenge for his coolness this morning, and she actually found 
herself hoping that he might call again in the evening, though he had 
given no hint of an intention to do so. On the whole, she was not 
displeased with the visit. It had whetted her taste as no other course 
he could have pursued could possibly have done. 

Presently she roused herself from her musing and began to prepare 
to go out. As a complement to the white lawn dress she already wore, 
she put on a dainty white shade hat, and, taking up a large white 
parasol and pair of gloves, she passed down the stairs and out into the 
street. 


332 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The streets of Eastmere were hot and oppressive beneath the mid- 
day rays of the summer sun, and Gladys felt it a relief to turn in at 
the gate of Mrs. Acland^s shaded cottage. She passed noiselessly along 
over the grassy path and up the steps, to look in at the window, as she 
always did, before entering. She expected to find the mother and child 
as usual having lessons, or telling stories, or talking together. But in- 
stead of this familiar scene she saw another that almost took her breath 
away and held her rooted to the spot. 

A tall, dark-haired man was standing in the centre of the room, 
with both arms around a black-robed woman’s form that Gladys knew 
well. He had drawn her to his breast and held her there, with a 
pressure of strong.tenderness ; his head was bent forward, and his lips 
rested upon her parted hair. The woman was Constance Acland ; but 
who was the man ? There was something about him, even in the hasty 
glance she caught, that seemed the very realization of what she could 
conceive Arthur Acland to have been : if that creature, who had been 
described to her as all that was bravest and gentlest in man, could have 
been materialized before her, it was thus that he might look ; but 
Arthur was dead, and the picture she had seen of Arthur was unlike 
this. Who, then, could this man be ? 

Suppressing every other impulse but the one that prompted her to 
flight, Gladys stepped softly back, and was silently stealing away, 
when Con came running around the side of the house, with a radiant 
face, and both hands clutching some treasured new possession, and 
called out, lustily, — 

Daddith ! Daddith ! Uncle Davy’th come. Come in the houthe 
and thee him.” 

Her brother, of course ! How stupid she had been ! She felt the 
pressure at her heart relaxed, as she stooped and tried to silence Con, 
but she was too late. Their voices must have been heard within, for 
the gentleman now came to the window, and, not seeing them at first, 
called out, — 

Come here, Con. Mother wants you.” 

The words fell on Gladys’s ears with a strangely distinct impression. 
There was a sort of unusualness in the accents and inflections that slie 
could not help observing. It might have been a localism, for David 
Leigh was a Southerner, — perhaps the first Southerner, pure and simple, 
that she had ever seen. Whatever it was, it caught her attention and 
held it, as she turned and looked upward and met the gaze of the gen- 
tleman who was standing at the window. As he caught sight of her 
he bowed his head slightly and just smiled. It was perhaps a more 
familiar salutation than any other stranger she could picture would 
have given her, and yet she recognized the greeting as a tribute, — to 
her womanhood, however, not in the least to her beauty. She had 
received tributes of the latter class often enough to know their unlike- 
ness to this. The gentleman now turned his head, and she heard him 
say, in a low tone, — 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


333 


There is a young lady with ConJ^ On this, Mrs. Acland appeared 
at the window beside him, her face still flushed with the trace of tears, 
but with a wonderful glow of pleasure in it. 

Do come in, Gladys,^^ she called ; and when the girl would have 
made some excuse, she stepped through the low window and ran down 
the steps impulsively and drew her on into the house. 

This is my own dear brother David/^ she said, as the gentleman 
advanced to meet them, and this, David, is my friend Gladys that 
IVe written you so much about. I have often dreamed about the time 
when you should know each other, not suspecting how near that time 
was.’^ 

Daddith ith mine too,’^ said Con, nestling up to her friend, with 
evident pride in avowing the intimacy in the presence of her uncle. 

Daddith ith pitty,^^ she added, by way of enhancing its importance. 

A bright flush flew to Gladys’s face at this spontaneous tribute, and 
it is probable that David Leigh, though a smile was his only response, 
admitted to himself that Con’s statement was not to be contravened. 

Aren’t you surprised ?” said Constance, with the frankness of a 
child, as they all entered the house and sat down. Would you have 
known who he was, if Con hadn’t told you ?” 

Mr. Leigh looked at his sister with an indulgent amused smile. 

Constance forgets,” he said, that this subject, as a field of theory 
and investigation, is not so important to every one as to herself.” 

think I should have seen a resemblance as soon as I looked at 
you well,” said Gladys. You are alike.” 

^^A little bit, perhaps,” said Constance, as if with some reluctance, 
^^but not very much. I never flattered myself I was more than just a 
little like David.” 

She smiled affectionately at him, as she spoke, as if aware he was 
being slightly disconcerted, but too sure of her friend’s comprehending- 
ness to mind. 

Really, Constance,” said David Leigh, with a little laugh, it’s 
to be hoped Miss Montaveril knows how to make allowances for you. — 
You mustn’t judge her by the ordinary standard of sisterly prejudice,” 
he said, turning to Gladys, or you will make a great mistake. She 
hasn’t learned wisdom with years, I find.” 

Constance drew herself closer to her brother on the sofa and took 
his hand. 

Gladys knows all about it,” she said ; at least she’s had some 
hint of what I think of you. Oh, David, it is so blissful to have you 
wdth me again ! I didn’t know anything could make me so happy.” 

Her voice choked suddenly. As the significance of these words 
came home to her, they brought a swift and vivid picture of the past 
before her, — of the times when Arthur had been the third person in 
their trio, — and the poor thing, overwrought by the unusual excite- 
ments of the day, suddenly lost her self-possession and burst into tears. 

Her brother, with a motion of great tenderness, put his arm around 
her and drew her closer to his side. As she dropped her head upon his 
shoulder and hid her face, he looked up, and met a look in Gladys’s 
fervent eyes that said so plainly I know” that there was no need of 


334 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


explanation. It seemed to establish a quick sympathy between them 
that made them feel like friends at once. Thinking her movements 
would not be observed, Gladys rose to go, but Mrs. Acland, perceiving 
her intention, dried her eyes, and, sitting up, said, earnestly, — 

Don’t go, Gladys. Please don’t. It is over now. It is only that 
seeing David and talking to him has unstrung me. I am not crying 
because I am sad. I am most thankful and glad, indeed I am, to have 
my darling old brother with me.” 

^^How did he happen to come so unexpectedly?” said Gladys, 
seizing the opportunity to turn the conversation. And then Constance 
proceeded to tell how he had found himself suddenly compelled to go 
to New York on some law business, and had telegraphed just before 
starting to a man whom he was anxious to confer with, but had found, 
on reaching New York, that this man was at Eastmere. So he had 
followed him here, and might be able to transact his business on the 
spot, instead of going back to New York. 

Anyway,” she ended, ^Gie is going to give himself a holiday and 
make me a visit. I am sure he needs it, for he looks a little thin.” 

The object of her recountal and solicitations had sat quietly by, lis- 
tening with an indulgent smile to all that she was saying, but now a 
sudden idea seemed to strike Mrs. Acland, for she turned to him 
abruptly and said, — 

Do go and see where Con is, David, and put some limit to the 
amount of candy she eats ; and don’t come back until you are called, — 
there’s a good boy.” 

Secrets, I perceive,” said Mr. Leigh, rising obediently. They 
must be Miss Montaveril’s ; for Constance has none from me.” 

Oh, Gladys !” said Constance, ardently, the minute they were 
alone, if you only knew how splendid he is ! It almost seems to me 
as if I had forgotten a part of it ; but seeing him brings it all back. 
Arthur often and over has told me he thought David the finest man 
he ever saw, — though they often didn’t agree about things. They were 
very unlike, and at first I thought I couldn’t care for Arthur for that 
reason, for David had always been my ideal. But what do you think 
of him, Gladys ? Is he handsome ?” 

Oh, handsome ! Decidedly so. There can be but one opinion 
as to that.” 

^^I know he used to be thought a perfect beauty when he was 
young,” said Constance ; but he is thirty-six now, you know, and 
perhaps people might say he had lost some of it.” 

Hardly, I think,” said Gladys, well pleased to gratify her friend, 
but, at the same time, perfectly sincere in all she said. ^^That is, I 
should certainly never think of calling him a beauty, but it seems to 
me his face would lose by having the lines of thought and responsibility 
done away with, and these are the only signs of age I see.” 

Do you know,” said Constance, smiling at the recollection, I 
used to resolve that I wouldn’t talk about David, simply because I 
could not trust myself and would say things that people naturally 
thought extravagant and silly ! And I must refrain from saying all I 
feel even to you. You shall judge what David is, for yourself. And 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


335 


now/^ she said, with a change of tone, as she took her friend’s hands 
and looked straight into her eyes, I want to hear what yon have got 
to tell me. Have you seen — did your visitor come?” 

He did,” said Gladys, rather hurriedly, as if she wanted to dis- 
miss the subject as soon as she could. He stayed with me about ten 
minutes, in the drawing-room, during the whole of which time we 
were bandying words and turning phrases, ci propos of nothing what- 
ever, and then we went over into the moming-room, to Eloise, where 
he spent perhaps an hour. It quite appeared as if he liked Eloise the 
better of the two.” 

And you, Gladys ? how did you like him ?” 

I am bound to own that I thought him quite as attractive as ever, 
— most amusing, really. I couldn’t help it. I asked myself if I had 
ever known a man who would not be put at a disadvantage by com- 
parison with him ; and if he really cares for me it is exactly the modi- 
fication of the sentiment that suits my taste. Now you are angry and 
disappointed ; I see it ; but please don’t worry about me : there is not 
the least danger of precipitancy. I shall pay your opinion the respect 
of waiting judiciously until I have had time to decide between my 
estimate of him and yours ; and the affair seems likely to hang fire 
indefinitely.” 

^‘Then you’ll promise to see me again before the matter is de- 
cided?” 

I’ll probably see you many times. I feel less in a hurry than I 
did, and there seems no special indication of haste on the other side, 
either. So let’s drop that subject, for the present. Tell me, now, how 
long do you think your brother will stay ?” 

It isn’t possible for him to say, until he has seen the man I spoke 
of ; but I hope and trust he will be here a week or two. He so rarely 
gives himself any relaxation ; and I think he looks now as if he 
needed a change. By the way,” she said, with a sudden smile and 
change of tone, I know how fastidious you are about names, and I’ve 
been wondering how you like ^ David,’ — and Con’s yet more melliflu- 
ous rendering, ^ Davy.’ ” 

Gladys made a little moue^ expressive of infinite distaste. 

I hate them !” she said, emphatically. Fancy calling a hand- 
some elegant man like that Devoid 

David the first was a handsome man, too, you remember,” said 
Constance, and I never heard any one find fault with his name. For 
my part, I love it. It means ^ beloved.’ ” 

You sweet one !” said Gladys, with a tone of impulsive affection- 
ateness. It is because you are one of the rare creatures who turn all 
things to favor and to prettiness ! I am thankful at least for the entire 
satisfactoriness of your dear name, and I don’t hesitate to say that if 
you Fad been called Drusilla I should have been constrained to with- 
hold from you quite one-half of the regard I have bestowed upon you 
as Constance. But now I really must go : I am keeping your brother 
from you.” 

^^No, you are not. I would have been obliged to give him up 
awhile to Mammy, anyway, and I know so well how she is drink- 

Yol. XLI.— 22 


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HONORED IN THE BREACH 


ing him in and gloating over him — her dear young master ! — that I feel 
reconciled to doing without him for a little while/^ 

You must send him to see me,” said Gladys, as she rose and 
kissed her friend. Con can bring him, and I really want to know 
him better. We are going to have a dinner next week, and Eloise 
will send him an invitation. If he stays that long, you must make 
him come.’^ 

She turned away as she spoke, and so failed to see the look of 
mingled amusement and j>erplexity called up by these words in Con- 
stance’s face. The latter watched her as she raised her white parasol 
and walked down the garden-path with its dense green borders, and 
just as she was disappearing through the gate Mr. Leigh joined her at 
the window. 

That’s a lovely-looking girl,” said David, with as much dispas- 
sionateness as if it was a flower he was referring to, and with some- 
thing of the same lightness of touch in his tone. 

Constance could not resist such an opportunity as this, and, with 
an impetuous desire to avail herself of her brother’s sympathetic inter- 
est, she confided to him something of the anxiety of mind she felt in 
the present state of affairs. David Leigh had never seen Locksly, 
Constance’s acquaintance with him having begun and ended during a 
summer which she spent at the sea-shore with her father, bringing 
Mammy along as her maid, but Constance had always made a confi- 
dant of her brother, and he was perfectly aware of the impression she 
retained of him after the passionate anger which he had given way to 
in his last interview with her. He knew that Constance believed him 
to be selfish, coarse-natured, and cruel, and he did not doubt, himself, 
that her o^Dinion of him was well founded. Still, it was only natural 
that his feeling should be less violent than hers. Constance could not 
bring herself to relate, even to this near and dear brother, the occur- 
rences of the evening before, at the ball : she had a feeling that Arthur 
had been injured and his memory insulted, and that the injury and 
insult would be greater if they were known and spoken of. She felt, 
moreover, that there was no danger of any sudden development in the 
matter, and a renewed hope that Gladys might retreat from any nearer 
relations with such a man, by reason of her own instincts and percep- 
tions, — which seemed to her far better than that the revelation she had 
it in her power to make should force her to such a course. It was im- 
possible, however, but that she should evidence in her manner the 
greatly aggravated sense of distrust and aversion which her recent ex- 
perience had occasioned, and so emphatic and almost violent was she 
that her brother was inclined to protest. 

‘‘My dear girl,” he said, remonstrantly, “you go too far; indeed 
you do. Even long ago he may well have been a better fellow than 
you gave liini credit for ; for you must remember the revulsion of feel- 
ing that had come to you made you liable to intemperate, judgment. 
And, above all, you must recall the fact that you measured him by a 
standard by which most men would have shown badly. And, besides 
this, he has had time to improve. He may by this time be a very dif- 
ferent man, — possibly not so unworthy of your friend as you think. 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 337 

At all events, it is for her to decide ; and she doesn’t look to me like a 
girl who would be apt to have small requirements.” 

Oh, her requirements are extremely vast, — such as they are, — but 
I hope you will not lose all interest in my dear Gladys w^hen I tell you 
that her requirements go very much to the consideration of things that 
seem to me, as they would to you, the merest trifles. She thinks of a 
man’s manners and looks and gifts of conversation and dress, and all 
that sort of things, so much more than the everlasting realities. You 
don’t know how it hurts me.” 

I don’t think it need. If those are the things she has her mind 
fixed on, she is simply playing at getting married, and when she comes 
nearer to the event she will see the truth of this; at least I think so. 
Any sweet young woman who begins to look at marriage in its near 
and personal application must see that it cannot be entered into on such 
a basis as that ; though as to all that I am very ignorant. I really 
know very little of the rewards and standards of the fashionable world, 
and I suppose this friend of yours is a full-fledged worldling, despite 
the contradiction of the idea that lies in her lovely, earnest eyes.” 

Constance was silent. She could not make up her mind to tell the 
whole truth about Mr. Locksly, and, that being so, she realized that it 
was impossible for her to receive from her brother the comfort of a com- 
plete sympathy. She could only wait and see what turn things would 
take. It was clear to her now that Mr. Locksly’s conduct at the ball 
was only a momentary impulse into which he had been betrayed by the 
suddenness of his meeting with her again, and that the real object of 
his hopes and endeavors was to win the hand of the heiress. It was 
not probable that his affections, such as they were, had ever been en- 
gaged in this matter at all. It was doubtless as much a matter of ex- 
pediency on his part as on Gladys’s. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Mr. Locksly’s first visit was followed by another, but it hap- 
pened that, when he called. Miss Montaveril was engaged with visitors, 
and he had no opportunity to see her in private, except for just one 
moment at parting, wLen he asked permission to call the next morning 
at twelve. The permission was graciously accorded, but he felt his 
position less secure than he would have liked, — a fact that gave to his 
attentions to Miss Montaveril an agreeable stimulus and made the goal 
he had in view seem all the better worth attaining, since he saw that it 
would require his best efforts to reach it. 

On the morning fixed for this proposed visit, a short while before 
the appointed hour, Gladys was standing at one of the upper windows 
of the house, when she caught sight, through the luxuriant shrubbery 
of the garden, of a man’s approaching figure. Her first thought was 
that it might be Mr. Locksly, but a second glance showed her that it 
was a taller, larger, very different-looking man, who, as he now came 
nearer, was seen to have a little child by the hand. Gladys then recog- 
nized Mr. Leigh and Con. Screening herself behind the curtain, she 


338 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


took a deliberate survey of this gentleman, in order to see if she could 
decide what it was that made him look unlike the other men she knew. 
A better opportunity of observation was afforded by the fact that the 
/ figure she was watching now stood still, as Con broke away and ran off 
to gather some flowers. Mr. Leigh began to utter some remonstrance, 
to which Con replied, complacently, — 

Oh, Daddith leth me have ath many ath I w^ant.’^ 

‘‘ Go ahead, then,’^ answered the gentleman, waiting good-humoredly. 
He stood at ease, with his hands resting on his hips, and looked about 
him. The attitude was advantageous to the display of his figure, Avhich 
was a very good one. Despite- his wide chest and fine shoulders, he 
was spare rather than the reverse, and had no superfluous flesh. His 
closely-buttoned frock-coat set well about vliim, — a fact due rather per- 
haps to the lines of his figure than to the skill of his tailor. All the 
details of his dress were quiet and simple, but from the crown of his 
light straw hat to the soles of his low-cut shoes there was an indication 
that his apparel was chosen for comfort and convenience rather than 
for modishness of effect. The figure was so noticeably elegant, the face 
so handsome, — in a characteristic way of its own, — the hands and feet 
so aristocratic and slender, that Gladys, with her super-fastidious notions, 
felt it to be a shame that a man with such unusual natural endowments 
should not avail himself of the means of enhancing them. Nobody 
could possibly say he was ill dressed,^^ she reflected ; but why isn’t he 
well dressed 

The child, meantime, had returned to her uncle, putting one little 
hand in his, while with the other she pressed against her face a bunch 
of fresh roses, burying her little nose in them and sniffing their per- 
fume enjoy ingly, as her manner was. 

Gladys now left her place of observation, and turned away to go to 
meet her guests, appearing at the head of the staircase just as Mr. Leigh 
and Con reached the open front door. Con immediately broke away 
and bounded forward to meet her, kissing her and showing her roses 
with an air of confidence. Mr. Leigh at the same time came in, re- 
moving his hat and greeting Miss Montaveril with a bow and smile 
that expressed the most absolute lack of self-consciousness she had ever 
seen. He even crossed the wide hall and advanced to the foot of the 
stairs, where Con had waylaid her hostess, and stood there, holding out 
his hand and smiling, as if they had known each other from childhood. 

Constance sent us over with an invitation to you,” he said, as they 
turned toward the drawing-room, leaving Con absorbed with some gold- 
fish in the hall. To-morrow will be Con’s birthday, and, as it comes 
on Sunday, it has been decided to celebrate it this evening. The cele- 
bration is to be in the form of an early tea, — a ^ small and early,’ 
Constance says I must tell you, — the invited guests to consist of you 
and me.” 

I accept with pleasure,” said Gladys, mentally renouncing without 
effort a reception to which she had meant to go. I hope it turns out 
that you are to remain at Eastmere ?” 

For the present, yes,” answered David. I’m glad to say that 
matter is satisfactorily arranged. By the way, you won’t mind my 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


339 


saying, now while I have the opportunity, how rejoiced I am to see 
the friendship between yourself and Constance. It is almost more 
than I had dared to hope that she should allow the entrance of any 
new element of affection and interest into her life.^^ 

It was a forced entrance,^^ said Gladys, smiling. I left her no 
choice.^^ 

Well, I^in mighty glad about it, anyhow,^^ said David. It has 
been a continual source of distress to me that she should be so utterly 
isolated, and yet there seemed no remedy. It is natural enough that 
she should desire it, but I dread the effects of a life of such enforced 
introspection. It is almost certain to produce morbidness, in time, free 
as she is from it now. I wanted her to come to me ; she and Con 
would have been such a boon to my life; but the mere suggestion 
pained her so that I never ventured to repeat it. She cannot tolerate 
the idea of leaving this place ; but I hope in time she may give that 
up, for Con^s sake. I always look forward to having them with me 
after a while, but I see I will have to be patient. She would be 
wretched — poor thing ! — if I asked her now. I am sure she will grow 
calm in time ; but that is all I look for. I donft think all the chances 
of the coming years hold anything that can give a fresh impulse to her 
life. The old ones will be her inspiration to the very end, I am sure. 
One of her old friends asked me the other day if I did not think she 
w^ould marry again. You canft think how it amazed and shocked me!^^ 

Yes, I can,^^ said Gladys, earnestly. I know just how you felt. 
Was she naturally very gay ? — I mean as a young girl 

She was naturally the gayest, most light-hearted creature I have 
ever seen. Why, it seems to me only the other day that the dear little 
thing was so happy all day long that her presence was just sunshine 
itself. It is as if a silent hand had just come dowm and put out her 
light. You donft know how I thanked God for Con. She doesnft 
bring daylight back, but she makes the darkness endurable for her 
poor mother. Sometimes it^s simply marvellous to me that Constance 
bears up at all,^^ he went on. Her marriage was something you 
probably couldnft understand, unless you had seen it or something like 
it. Acland was a man you couldnft be with, without its seeming worth 
while to try to exalt your own nature to something like a resemblance 
to what human nature was in him. He was a man, too, of fine powers 
and cultivated intelligence. Their life together was a little bit of poetry 
that I think one is the better for knowing about, in this prosaic age of 
ours. The elements of selfishness and envy and worldly ambition had 
no part in it. They lived in the perpetual presence of the thought that 
their union here was the beginning of an eternal companionship here- 
after. Acland was a deeply religious fellow, and all the things to come, 
which are such vague factors to us, were living realities to him, and he 
made them so to Constance. I am sure nothing but the comfoH which 
springs from that source could enable Constance to be what she is now, 
— the most patient, faithful, loving, unembittered little soul that ever 
lived.^^ 

I am sure of it,’^ said Gladys. The solace and support of her 
life is her firm belief that her husband lives and loves her still, and 


340 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


that their companionship is not really broken, but continues in the 
contact of spirit witli spirit, which she has told me she feels the plainest 
consciousness of, at times/^ 

I am so convinced that that is the key to the whole matter,’^ said 
Mr. Leigh, that I can^t help hoping that, once she gets her sensitive 
organism adjusted to this change in her life, a great tranquillity and 
peace will follow. Her heart already is where her treasure is, and she 
is capable of faith enough and self-abnegation enough to feel it, after a 
wLile, a most willing surrender of her will to God^s, and of her joy 
here to her husband’s blessedness there.’’ 

He had talked on earnestly and freely, with that same absence of 
self-consciousnesss which to Gladys’s unaccustomed perceptions had 
the character, not of a mere negation, but rather of a positive charm. 
It did not seem to occur to him to make any apology for entering, 
with a stranger, upon a subject so near and so private ; and this made 
her feel confident that he realized the sincerity of her affection for hie 
sister. 

I have had enough experience of life,” Mr. Leigh j)resently went 
on, to know that it is the fate of most men to be forgotten, and to 
have known Arthur Acland is almost enough to make me rejoice to see 
Constance as she is. He was a man so vivid, so inspiring, so spiritual, 
so replete with power, and their life was such a blending of all the 
finer essences of humanity, that ik seemed made to be eternal.” 

As he finished speaking, the clock on the mantel began to strike, 
and as its twelfth reverberating stroke faded into a sound of distant 
music, a gentleman entered the room. 

It was Mr. Locksly, and he came by special appointment. But 
that did not prevent his seeming at that moment a distinct intruder. 
Gladys felt utterly unattuned to him, and sincerely wished his appoint- 
ment had been for any other day and hour. 

There were certain of her moods in which she would probably have 
found him a more acceptable companion than David Leigh, for many 
a time what she desired most was the sort of association which would 
counteract any tendency to seriousness. But she Avas in a very different 
humor now. She had been deeply interested in her serious talk with 
David Leigh, and she was impatient of the interruption. She Avas 
impatient, too, of Mr. Locksley’s manner and appearance, because she 
felt it would grate upon her companion. He brought such an air of 
fashionableness and society into the room that she feared Mr. Leigh 
would regret his confidential attitude toAvard her of a feAv minutes back, 
and be made to think it had been inappropriate ; and she feared, too, 
that he would immediately relegate her to the ranks of Avorldliness and 
fashion which Mr. Locksly looked so eminently a representative of, and 
thrust her out from that other world in Avhich such spirits as Arthur 
and Constance and himself lived and moved and had their being. 

Mr. Locksly wore a single eye-glass, and wore it well, — Avith the 
appearance of being able to give his mind to something else besides 
keeping it in his eye, not easy for a free-born American to attain to. 

It was impossible for Gladys to avoid a swift mental comparison 
between the two men, as she introduced them, and on which side the 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 341 

advantage rested was a fact to be decided entirely by the taste of the 
judge. Both were excellent types of their classes. 

The name of Leigh was not uncommon enough to warrant any cer- 
tainty on Mr. Locksly’s part that the man he was now introduced to was 
a relative of the woman he had once loved, and David gave not the 
slightest indication of ever having heard of Mr. Locksly before. As 
soon as possible, he took leave, Gladys going with him into the hall to 
find Con, who had left the gold-fish to bestow her attention upon some 
canaries and a mocking-bird, whose cages hung in the porch. She was 
making herself entirely at home, and evidently felt at liberty to make 
free use of whatever belonged to her friend Daddith.^^ 

When Gladys had kissed the child good-by, and cordially shaken 
hands with David, promising to be very prompt at the tea-party, she 
returned to Mr. Locksly with a manner so high up and far off that the 
quick perception of that gentleman at once divined that this was not the 
* propitious moment for pressing his suit. This was exactly what Gladys 
had meant to indicate to him ; and when she perceived that he had 
taken the hint, and was entering into an agreeable and unpersonal talk, 
she gave him so much credit for hia discrimination and sense of fitness 
that she immediately scored one in his favor. It was only a divided 
interest, however, with which she listened to him, and when he rose to 
go he could only feel that he had not altogether failed in his effort to 
please her, — not that he had succeeded. 

He made it his business, after leaving Miss Montaveril, to find out 
who David Leigh was ; but the confirmation of his suspicion that he 
might be Mrs. Acland^s brother did not particularly disconcert him. 
That fact did not in the least prove that Mrs. Acland was known to 
Gladys, and, as he had been repeatedly assured that Constance knew and 
received positively no one in the place, he felt himself almost safe on 
that score. Besides, he was sure that nothing would induce Mrs. Acland 
to talk about his past relations with her, and it was certainly most 
unlikely that she should be on such terms with Miss Montaveril as to 
know anything whatever of his present attitude toward that somewhat 
unaccountable young lady, whose favor it had suddenly become of the 
very first importance that he should win. He felt such a zest in the 
undertaking, now, that if her fortune had been less than the half of 
what it was he would have found it worth while to pursue the matter. 


CHAPTEK X. 

That little birthday-party of Coffs was an experience unlike any- 
thing Gladys had ever known. The child was in a state of rapture 
over her presents, one of which, according to an established usage of 
Mrs. Acland^s, was marked From dear Father.^^ The pretty table, 
with its splendid flowers supplied by Gladys, and its four candles abound 
a large sponge-cake, was a bright spot for loving faces to gather round, 
and Con, in her best white dress and widest sash, with Mammy behind 
her chair in snowier apron and statelier turban than usual, was a bit 
of merry-hearted childhood to charm the toughest heart. As for 


342 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


Gladys, this simple domestic scene was so delightful that she was 
almost afraid to move, lest the spell should be broken and she should 
find herself outside this charmed circle, — perhaps at some tiresome 
dinner-party, between the courses of which she had fallen asleep and 
dreamed a happy dream. During the easy home-like intercourse of 
that evening she got to know David Leigh better than dozens of ordi- 
nary meetings could have accomplished. 

One day — it was the morning of the one for which David Leigh had 
accepted Mrs. MontaveriPs inyitation to dinner — Mammy and Con 
came to Gladys with a message from Mrs. Acland to the effect that her 
brother would be out on business all the morning, and that Miss Mont- 
averiPs presence would be very welcome at the cottage. 

Gladys put on her hat and went back with the messengers, feeling 
an amused conviction that Mrs. Acland wanted to find out if anything 
significant had transpired as to Mr. Locksly. 

It was a very easy matter to set her friend’s mind at rest on that 
score, as Mr. Locksly was much too wise a man to injure his chances 
by undue precipitancy, and had been careful not to pass the bounds of 
prudence and decorum that Gladys had set for him. 

This topic, therefore, was speedily disposed of, and Mrs. Acland, 
feeling herself free from apprehension in that quarter, fell naturally to 
talking of her brother, a topic in which her companion showed herself 
so much interested that the enthusiasm of the speaker led her on to a 
free and spirited recountal. 

He is a good many years older than I am,” Mrs. Acland was say- 
ing, and all through my childhood and girlhood he was my hero. 
He was superbly handsome, as a younger man, — not handsomer than he 
is now, — indeed, not so handsome to the eye that sees more beauty in 
character and spirituality than in form and color.” 

He is sufficiently handsome as it is,” said Gladys : that speaks 
for itself. But tell me, did he use to care for gayeties and amusements 
and ladies’ society ? I can see he doesn’t care much for these things 
now.” 

Yes, he used to care for them immensely, and paid great attention 
to his dress, and his carriage and horses, in his boyish days, when he 
had such things to care for. But he was very young when the war 
came on, and he went right in, and when it was over everything was 
changed. You see, David grew up with the expectation that he would 
always be in affluent circumstances and live in ease, as his fathers before 
him had done. With his money and position and handsome appear- 
ance, together with a simply marvellous power of winning hearts which 
he used to liave when he took the trouble to exert it, he had no end of 
friends, and was equally popular with men and girls. He used to have 
love-affairs in plenty, too, but none of them were very serious, and when 
the war broke out it was perhaps the first real interruption to that sort 
of butterfly existence. He had recently returned from abroad, with a 
very striking sort of vehicle that he used to drive behind a pair of 
horses which had been raised for him on my father’s place, and I can 
well remember my pride and pleasure when he asked me to be his com- 
panion the first time he drove it in the park. I can recall the keen 


HONORED IN THE BREACH, 


343 


delight his preference gave me, when I saw with what interest and 
favor the grown ladies would look at him. Well, that was to be his 
last experience of those conditions and sensations, for he was among the 
first to volunteer, and all through those four years of dreadful danger 
to him in the field, and agony to us at home, he fought and struggled 
and suffered, and in the end came home defeated, disappointed, almost 
crushed. You, Gladys, with your experience of life, can form no con- 
ception of what that home-coming was. Father had been badly 
wounded, and was at home disabled and sick, and David found his 
mother and sisters without the necessities of life. When he looked 
about him to see what could be done, the prospect was black enough. 
There were immense tracts of land, but no labor to work it, and, be- 
sides that, there was not food to eat while the crops were growing. My 
mother’s delicate health and my father’s disabled state both made medi- 
cines and suitable food imperative. So what do you suppose this ele- 
gant young gentleman did ? Seeing that to-morrow’s dinner even was 
hypothetical, and the dinners for next week impossible from present 
resources, he took his horse, which was the only thing he had brought 
out of tlie army, and put it into an old cart and went to selling pure, 
fresh milk in the city near which our plantation was situated. The 
place was in the hands of the Yankees, of course, and fresh food of all 
kinds was scarce, good pure milk being especially in demand, and 
bringing such a high price that it was, in consequence, very generally 
adulterated by unscrupulous sellers. There were one or two cows left 
on the place, which were the sum total of David’s capital. He got a 
man to drive his cart, but, finding himself cheated out of half the first 
day’s earnings, he mounted the cart next morning himself, starting long 
before daylight, — the pampered young fellow who used to dawdle down 
late to a ten o’clock breakfast ! — and drove around his ^ route,’ deliver- 
ing here and there his pints and quarts. This was doing things in a 
comparatively private way ; but the performance had to be repeated in 
the afternoon, when all the city was out. I have heard some of the 
most fastidious ladies in the place, who were girls then, tell of meeting 
him with his wagon on the fashionable promenade and receiving from 
him as frank and graceful a salutation as he had ever given them from 
his handsome drag long ago. If he had needed anything in the way 
of moral support, — which he didn’t, — the pluck of those Southern girls 
would have been enough. He had never been more popular nor his 
society more sought after, but he was much too busy now for devoting 
himself to young ladies. He drove the cart for one or two weeks, and 
I’ve heard him say that the satisfaction of giving pure milk and good 
measure, when there was so much cheating going on, was one of the 
most genuine he had ever known. In a little while he saw his way to 
doing something better ; but his ^ milk-route,’ as he used to call it, in 
professional phraseology, had secured him the immediate means of pro- 
viding for those dependent on him, and I think it is an experience that 
to this day it gives him satisfaction to recall.” 

As Mrs. Acland finished her recital, she turned to her friend and 
said, with a smile, — 

^^I have amused myself by watching the phases of expression that 


344 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


have passed over your face as I have been telling you this, and I can 
assure you it has been very fiinny/^ She paused a moment, before say- 
ing, in a slightly altered tone, Arthur used to delight in that story 
of David ; and yet I think when I first told it to him it shocked him 
a little, — as it has you. Perhaps you think it was a creditable thing to 
do, and all that, but you don’t see how he could, — eh?” 

If he had been a Northerner, he couldn’t,” said Gladys ; he 
simply couldn’t.” 

Ah, but being a Southerner he could,” said Mrs. Acland. “ That 
makes the difference.” 

‘‘ Drive a milk-cart !” said Gladys, slightly knitting her brows. 

It isn’t possible for me to conceive your brother in that position. If 
any one else had told me, I should not have believed it. It may have 
been very fine, — it was fine, — but — well, it’s a sort of thing I can’t 
think of for a gentleman, and Mr. Leigh has so much the bel air — 
don’t you know? — that it seems harder with him than most men. It 
is difficult to imagine an aristocrat’s becoming a milkman.” 

Is it easier to imagine a milkman’s becoming an aristocrat ? 
David would say not. Ah, Gladys, my child, there’s an immense 
deal of unreality in this world, and that is why this blessed brother of 
mine is so precious to me. He has the simplest nature ever given to 
man, — so simple that to some people he gives the impression of being 
deeply complex, so few men are there who are so exactly what they seem 
as he is. Arthur used to talk to me about this, and took such pride and 
pleasure in David’s absolute genuineness and simplicity.” 

There was an instant’s pause, which Gladys broke by saying, sud- 
denly,— 

Is your brother a religious man ?” 

Oh, deeply said Mrs. Acland, drawing in her breath, and then 
letting it out, in a strong, emphatic respiration, as she uttered the last 
word. And yet,” she went on, presently, he isn’t strictly orthodox 
in everything. He and Arthur thought -differently on many points. 
My husband himself kept strictly to both the letter and the spirit of 
the gospel, and I used to think David was apt to subordinate the letter 
too much to the spirit, but Arthur never would say so. He used to 
say that we were told to judge the tree by its fruit, and tlien point to 
David’s life, which has always been so simple and true and good. As 
long as my mother lived, David was just her strength, and after she 
died he was like son and daughter both to my father. The state of 
Arthur’s health engrossed me, but he never let me be missed, and, now 
that both of them are dead, he has turned his attention to public affairs ; 
and it would surprise you, and delight you too, I think, to see a man 
who has such a deep and availing interest in the political and business 
concerns of his people, and so little personal ambition. I have always 
been ambitious for him, and wanted to see him a leader of men, but 
David never cared much whether he got the rewards that most men 
consider success. I think he felt that he was freer without them.” 

Gladys rose from her seat as her friend ceased speaking. 

^‘1 have got an engagement in Vanity Fair this morning,” she 
said. How I feel as if I were in another world here ! You have 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


345 


given me something to think about, and turned my ideas into a new 
drift. You don^t know what a boon that is to me, dear Mrs. Acland.^^ 
I want to tell you, Gladys,^^ said Mrs. Acland, with a slight hesi- 
tation in her voice, something I have often thought about, and feared 
you might not understand. You were so cordial and sweet to me in 
begging me to call you by your name that I thought you might won- 
der why I did not respond by asking the same of you, and might not 
understand 

She broke off, as if unable to proceed, and tears sprang to her eyes. 
Yes, I do understand, dear Mrs. Acland,^^ said Gladys, quickly. 

I knew, from the first, why it was, and I would not have it other- 
wise, for the name that was always dearest to you is dearest to me now 
too, since IVe learned to know you by it, and to understand why you 
value it more than you possibly could a name that was simply your 
own.^^ 

With these words, and a warm embrace, the two friends parted. 


CHAPTER XI. 

If Miss Montayeril was inclined to lament the fact of her step- 
mother’s lack of mentality, she would have been the last one to deny 
that Eloise had her talents ; and these were never brought so fully into 
play as on the occasions of the handsome entertainments which were 
given from time to time at one or the other of the young heiress’s 
establishments. 

On the particular evening on which Mr. Locksly and David Leigh, 
among others, had been bidden as guests, Gladys descended from her 
dressing-room and walked through the beautiful apartments, all lighted 
and thrown open, with a sense of real gratitude to the being who had 
secured to her all this harmony of effect and exquisiteness of detail 
with no further effort to herself than the very slight one of settling the 
bills. And Gladys herself, what a finish to the picture she was, in her 
j3erfect costume that made her beauty yet more beautiful ! 

The last apartment to be inspected was the dining-room, and there 
too all was perfect. The silver, the glass, the china, the damask, the 
flowers, — all were above her criticism. As she stood surveying the 
scene, Mrs. Montaveril appeared with the dinner-cards in her hand. 

Who is to take you in, Gladys?” she said, when her step-daughter 
had given her warm tribute to the beauty of the appointments her taste 
had dictated. ^^Mr. Locksly, I suppose?” 

Why Mr. Locksly ?” said Gladys. 

Well, he’s rather the most distinguished of the young men present, 
and the one likely to be the most entertaining.” 

Then he’s distinguished sufficiently already,” said Gladys, and 
in my capacity as hostess I feel it incumbent upon me to bestow the 
most entertaining man elsewhere. I mean Mr. Leigh to take me in.” 
So the cards were arranged accordingly. 

Gladys knew that a fashionable dinner-party must be a thing rather 
out of David Leigh’s line at present, and she half suspected it might 


346 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


bore him a little, so she chose to take upon herself the task of seeing 
that he was entertained. This, however, was only one of several mo- 
tives which were at work in the young girhs breast. 

If a desire to conduce to Mr. Leigh^s ease of mind was any part 
of her purpose, she might have spared herself all pains, as she reflected, 
with some amusement, when she came to look back upon the evening^s 
incidents, for Mr. Leigh^s ease of mind was already as great as it could 
be. This Gladys perceived from the moment when she saw him appear 
before her astonished vision wearing a frock-coat and colored cravat. 

He was among the latest arrivals, and when he came in the room 
was already tolerably well furnished with guests, the male portion of 
wdiom were arrayed in one invariable, monotonous style, the conven- 
tional evening dress, which threw into glaring contrast the garments 
Mr. Leigh was wearing. There was a hum of conversation in the air 
when he entered, making his way toward Mrs. Montaveril and her 
daughter, wdiich for one scarcely perceptible instant was arrested by the 
sort of catching of breath that came upon some of the talkers ; in ad- 
dition to this, there was a just visible interchange of swift glances among 
the assembled guests wLen the tall, erect figure had passed them by, 
but on no countenance present was there so much as the smallest ap- 
proach to a smile visible. Miss MontaveriPs guests were shocked to 
the centre of their beings, but they all of them bore it more or less like 
heroes. 

Excuse poor Gladys that she too wa.s shocked, but she did not flinch, 
and neither, in truth, did Mrs. Montaveril, though the thoughts which 
flashed through the minds of the two ladies were widely apart in their 
drift. Gladys was keenly lamenting that a man in whom she had recog- 
nized so much that was fine, both in mind and character, should have 
made a blunder which set him, in the beginning, at such a disadvantage, 
and, in her own acute sensibility to this false step, was perhaps under- 
estimating the courtesy of her other guests and determining to correct 
the least tendency to slight Mr. Leigh which she might become aware 
of. Mrs. Montaveril, for her part, was conscious of a certain degree 
of triumph mingled with her chagrin, and was reflecting that this 
would perhaps teach Gladys a salutary lesson on the rather reckless 
way she had of taking up with odd people, if they happened to strike 
her fancy. 

It soon became apparent that David Leigh seemed extremely likely 
to hold his own. His ease of mind was as great as it could have been 
under any conjunction of circumstances. He was a man of quick per- 
ceptions, and he saw at a glance that his dress was entirely unlike all 
the others in the room. JSut what of that? He supposed the other 
men were dressed in the manner that suited them best, and he was 
dressed in the manner that suited him best. He should certainly feel 
himself extremely uncomfortable in such garments and shoes and stock- 
ings as these gentlemen were wearing, and he didiPt feel called upon to 
undergo any such constraint, especially as it would cost him more money 
than he cared to spend to buy an equipment for this one evening which 
he saw no prospect of making further use of. With these rapid reflec- 
tions, Mr. Leigh dismissed the matter from his mind, and it recurred 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


347 


to him no more that evening. His thoughts quickly glanced from him- 
self to Gladys, to the potent charm of whose appearance on this occa- 
sion he was keenly alive. He was alive also — ^though less consciously 
so — to the potent spell that lingers in every detail of surroundings such 
as those about him now. 

He was unaccustomed to such luxury as this ; not only to its more 
material aspect, but also to the educated taste which had made mere 
materials conform to rules and instincts which could perhaps have had 
no existence .without some power of self-expression. He lived among 
people for the most part too poor for such luxury, and those who did 
possess the means for it had in most cases acquired it too newly to have 
mastered the subtile question of how to enjoy it. True, there was a 
class among his own people, as to whom, in all that concerned true re- 
finement, he would not yield an inch to any civilization in Christendom ; 
but these were for the most part poor, and had only the recollection of 
a time of affluent hospitality and ease. Even with them, he reflected, 
it was questionable whether an affluence which, when it did exist, took 
a form so much coarser in regard to material expression, if possibly 
finer in regard to feeling, could have evolved an entertainment like the 
present, for which special association and training were required, — an 
association and training which it would be only absurd for them to pre- 
tend to have had. And as with the costumes of the gentlemen, so with 
the appointments of the house. David Leigh admired them and saw 
that they were beautiful, but he attached no importance to them what- 
ever. A gentleman’s a gentleman, a lady’s a lady, and a gentleman’s 
home is a gentleman’s home, for all that ! he would have said. 

It is quite possible that David Leigh attached too little importance 
to the conventionalities of life, and perhaps he is excusable only on the 
ground that it is better to give them less consideration than they deserve 
than to exalt them unduly, and the intelligence and discrimination of 
this Southern gentleman were such that it may well be believed that if 
he had lived amid surroundings that necessitated a strict attention to 
the details of dress and forms he would have been quick to perceive 
the use and beauty of them. And therefore this indifference to them 
is to be construed not as a point of superiority, but merely as a pro- 
vincialism. 

The peculiarity of Mr. Leigh’s dress was forgotten by himself much 
sooner than by any other member of the company. Among the men 
there were some who felt disposed to be sorry for him, until they found 
how gratuitous their sympathy w^as, and there was also a less kind- 
hearted faction who did not quite conceal a disposition to be super- 
cilious in their bearing toward him, but these too gave forth their 
feelings only to have them thrust back upon themselves, for certainly 
it had not penetrated the consciousness of David Leigh that any gentle- 
man alive could feel disposed to take a supercilious attitude toward 
him because his coat happened to be cut in this way, instead of that. 
The younger ladies thought him handsome at first, and ill dressed 
afterwards, while the older ones probably reversed the order of this 
judgment. Even in the select assembly which Mrs. Montaveril’s dis- 
crimination had got together on this occasion, candor compels the ad- 


348 


HONORED IN TEE BREACH 


mission that there was a good proportion who quite lost sight of Mr. 
Leigh behind his coat. It was a pity ; for these were exactly the indi- 
viduals to whom the lesson of this stranger^s presence, costume, and 
bearing among them would have been most profitable. 

All through the early part of the evening, Gladys watched David 
Leigh scrutinizingly, until at length scrutiny was forgotten in the wider 
issue of attentive interest. The fact of his being much the handsomest 
man present did not, even in her eyes, counterbalance the superficial 
disadvantage of the cut of his coat. If he had been an important dig- 
nitary from a semi-civilized kingdom far across the seas, any eccen- 
tricity of dress might have taken the form of picturesqueness, but as 
one of her own fellow-countrymen the thing seemed to have no pallia- 
tion. Gladys liked him heartily, and she was really attached to his 
sister, and for both these reasons she would have liked to see him 
appear to advantage. It w^as very hard, certainly, in the face of all 
this, to see him so hopelessly handicapped in the beginning, and she 
felt sorry he had come. By degrees, however, this feeling passed off, 
and as she watched David conversing with the people to whom she had 
presented him she began to realize that her qualms for him had been 
needless, and she saw very clearly that they were in no degree shared 
by their object. The perception of this fact gave her real satisfaction, 
for she knew that David must have realized the incongruousness of his 
costume, and she knew that any other man present, perceiving a fact 
like this, would have gone through his part with a sense of blight upon 
him for the remainder of the evening. So she began to ask herself 
what rational ground there was for such slavish conformity to conven- 
tionalism. Mr. Leigh was very well dressed, and looked — oh, such a 
gentleman, she thought, as she watched him talking to old General 
Warren, a favorite friend of her own, who listened to him with such 
interest as made it clear that he, at least, did not view the man in 
eclipse by his coat. Even before dinner was announced, Gladys had 
ceased to regret having invited him, and it was not long before she 
ceased even to regret that he had come in a frock-coat. She was feeling 
a certain pride in him, which David, if he could have known of it, 
would have been utterly unable to comprehend. All through dinner 
this feeling grew and deepened, notwithstanding the fact that he made 
several small blunders which did not escape her observation. These, 
however, were invariably in the shape of arbitrary customs, which had 
no relation to real good -breeding, and as Gladys saw him quietly re- 
fusing the things he did not want, declining the use of a finger-bowl 
because he felt no need of it, eating his ice-cream comfortably with a 
spoon, neatly refolding his napkin and placing it by his plate, all in 
such an unconscious, simple way, treating the meal and its adjuncts as 
if it were so entirely subordinate to the conversation that he had no 
special attention to bestow upon it, she became conscious of the keenest 
zest in watching him and getting an insight into the springs of action 
at work. 

Old General Warren, who sat during dinner on Gladyses other side, 
and who was thus near enough to continue the conversation with his 
new acquaintance, rather neglected the lady he had brought in, for the 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


349 


attainment of this purpose, but, as that lady seemed admirably able to 
take care of herself, it did not give him any great concern. The old 
gentleman and David Leigh therefore had a good deal of talk across 
Gladys, who, of course, entered now and then into the conversation, 
though she chose the part of a listener as far as she could. The 
generaPs evident interest in his new acquaintance pleased the girl as 
much as David^s easy, intelligent talk pleased both the general and 
herself. It was something quite new, in her experience, to see a man 
whom she had already proved to be almost amusingly ignorant in mat- 
ters of art, music, modern literature, social gossip, the drama, and all 
the topics that formed the staple of conversation in the society she 
knew, talking with an impressive ability upon the more serious sub- 
jects of which she was herself ignorant, but which she now found to 
have an interest above almost any she had hitherto heard discussed. It 
was in itself an unconventional thing to engage in this kind of talk, 
which was both literally and figuratively over the head of the charming 
girl who sat between them, and General Warren knew it, if David did 
not. The latter, for his part, was anxious to interest Gladys in these 
topics, which seemed to him so worthy of interest, and he was talking 
as much for her as for his masculine hearer, and, finding her attention 
caught and fixed, was satisfied. 

General Warren explained his position to Gladys, later in the even- 
ing, by saying that he did not often get a chance to talk to a young 
fellow whose ideas were so clearly his own, and that an old man like 
himself, who had almost forsworn the frivolity of ladies’ dinners, had 
a right to possess himself of any congenial element that happened to be 
available, and ended by telling Gladys that she had picked up an ac- 
quaintance that was worth having and did credit to her taste. Gladys 
mentioned the frock-coat, and they both laughed over it, and at the 
effect which it must have produced on some of the people present. 

^^Locksly, for instance,” said the old man. ^^I dare say his blood 
runs cold to this minute.” 

No,” said Gladys, still smiling. He is perhaps less shocked 
than some others, as he is more eminently a man of the world. If he 
undertakes to belittle Mr. Leigh, — as he may, — he will try to go 
deeper.” 

Let me be answerable to anybody that undertakes that task,” said 
the old general. I fancy I could fight this battle better than you 
could.” 

I’m not sure about that,” said Gladys. I am conscious of hold- 
ing some very effective weapons in reserve for that fray.” 

This young fellow comes of a good stock,” went on General War- 
ren. I knew his father well, long ago, and several other members of 
his family. We were talking about them before dinner. Look at him 
now ! Can’t you tell by the face of the woman he is talking to that 
his unusual sort of talk has a piquant flavor to her satiated palate ?” 

It does look so,” said Gladys. Really, I begin to think a frock- 
coat at a dinner is quite lovely : don’t you ?” 

This was her last remark, as she glided away to mingle with her 
guests. As she came near to David Leigh, he rose, but, seeing she did 


350 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


not mean to pause, sat down again, all the time continuing the recital 
he had been making, to which the automatically natural action of rising 
at a lady’s approach had been no interruption. 

Gladys now felt aware of an almost affectionate pride in her friend’s 
brother, his whole manner was so clearly the outgrowth of an inner 
grace of spirit and simplicity of heart that made any kind of awkward- 
ness out of the question and redeemed his unconventionality from the 
possibility of contempt. 

When Gladys found herself presently Ute-a-Ute with Mr. Locksly, 
who up to this moment had had no opportunity for any private talk with 
her, she treated him with much graciousness, feeling an impulse to 
draw him out that she might the more keenly point a certain contrast 
she had in her mind. And Locksly undeniably talked agreeably : he 
had always entertained her, and he did so still. She mentioned David 
presently, to see w^hat he would say, but he said nothing. She would 
have liked him to comment upon the coat, in order that she might have 
a little skirmish on the spot, with the weapons held in readiness ; but 
he glided away from the subject at once. She had watched David 
Leigh so much that she suddenly began to wonder whether or not he 
was observing her. Apparently not : that was a bright woman he was 
talking with, and she was exerting herself to be agreeable with what 
looked like a considerable degree of success. 

Altogether that evening was one of the most interesting and in- 
spiring that Gladys had ever spent, and after it was over it left her a 
great deal to think about.* 

The next morning Mr. Locksly called, and, happening to find Miss 
Montaveril alone, he came to the point with a directness that showed a 
strong determination to know his fate without further temporizing, and 
Gladys, almost to her own surprise, found herself quite ready with her 
answer, and refused him absolutely, without a qualm ! 

There was no possibility of misunderstanding the young lady’s 
position. He felt her decision to be quite final, and that afternoon he 
left Eastmere. 


CHAPTER XII. 

There was something that struck Gladys as being absolutely piquant 
in the way that David Leigh treated her. She had never felt herself 
in just that attitude toward any man before. Perhaps she had never 
been so much on a footing of cordial friendship with a man without 
receiving from him the faintest evidence of any feeling that went beyond 
friendliness. She was not in the least vain, — indeed, she was almost 
remarkably the reverse, — but it had been her misfortune to be looked 
upon from the point matrimonial by almost every free and uncommitted 
man that she had ever come in close contact with. She had sometimes 
wished that she could know one man who would be capable of looking 
upon her simply in the light of a companion and friend, and her repeated 
disappointments in that regard had made her come to feel that such a 
friendship was impossible. 

She caught herself conjecturing a great deal about David Leigh. 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


351 


She wondered whether he hadn^t perhaps at some period of his life had 
an unfortunate love-affair. His uniform cheerfulness — a sort of real 
sunniness of nature — seemed to contradict that idea, and yet, in spite 
of this bright temperament, she had now and then had just the merest 
glimpses of a deep seriousness which piqued her curiosity, at the same 
time that it awed her a little, so doubtful was she as to what its source 
might be. ‘ 

I have been wondering, Gladys, said Mrs. Acland, one morning, 
when the two friends were alone together, ^^what your impressions 
about David must be. Doesn’t he often give you little shocks ? I am 
sure, with your fastidiousness on the little points which he falls short 
in, together with your lack of interest in the subjects which are so 
important to him, there must be many moments of inharmoniousness 
in your intercourse, though I am glad to see you get along pretty well 
in spite of all this.” 

Gladys was more than pleased to be invited to a consideration of 
this topic by Mrs. Acland’s own act, and she did not hesitate to say at 
once, — 

Mr. Leigh interests me very much, and I often feel like asking 
him and you a thousand questions about his life, and pursuits, and 
interests ; but I don’t want to be charged with a vulgar curiosity about 
him. His being so unlike the other men I know — naturally a recom- 
mendation in itself — seems a sort of demand upon my sense of delicacy, 
and I don’t feel myself warranted in asking questions about him.” 

Ask what you choose, my dear. If there was ever a man whose 
life and actions are open to view, to be seen and read of all men, 
certainly David’s are. The positions he takes with regard to his pro- 
fession, his politics, his social relations, his religious beliefs, are all of 
them open as day to any who wishes to know them. It isn’t a very 
large place that he lives in, and cannot pretend to go beyond the average 
in the number of really able and considerable men it has, and although 
David is comparatively young, he has great weight in the community, 
and some influence — ^ven a good deal — beyond it. He has taken an 
active part in all the public interests of his neighborhood for a long 
time past, and has been so engrossed in these subjects that his reading 
and study have borne almost entirely upon^ them. You would be 
amused — indeed, you, with your multifarious exactions in certain ways, 
would be shocked — to discover his enormous ignorance concerning many 
of the matters that, in modern opinion, are held to be the merest 
rudiments of culture. If you were to put him through an examination 
on art, you would find his information to consist in being able to name 
perhaps six eminent artists of ancient times, and almost certainly not 
one of to-day. As for their works, specifically I doubt if he could do 
more than instance ‘ Raphael’s Madonna,’ with an air of being posi- 
tively secure there ! Sacred music to him means the hymns he has 
heard at church, and secular music a few old Scotch songs that he loves 
to whistle, a few of Moore’s Melodies, and a few popular songs of the day 
that he has happened to hear. Not that he hasn’t been now and then to 
the opera, — for he has. He honestly tries, as far as may be, to make 
use of his privileges, but not even the most sincerely directed efforts 

VoL. XLI.— 23 . 4 


352 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


could evolve any edification for David out of an opera, beyond an 
occasional sensation of pleasure at some chance sympathetic straiu. He 
knows literally nothing about music, and only loves such music as he 
knows. Poor Gladys she broke off suddenly, I fear I am lacerating 
your feelings by this long catalogue of my brother’s crimes of omission. 
And it is something the same with books. We used often to say, — I 
mean my husband and I” (with the just perceptible difference of tone 
she never failed to show when she began to speak of her husband), — 
^^what a world of pleasure we might have opened before David by 
means of books, if we could have lived in daily intercourse with him. 
Before my marriage I had read comparatively little also, and it was 
such a wonderful thing to me to make my way into a stronger light 
and feel the world so much richer and fuller than I had ever dreamed. 
Arthur thought David so highly gifted, — he often said so, — and when 
I have lamented the fact that the coming on of the war and the sur- 
roundings into which David was forced afterwards, together with the 
lack of leisure and the necessity for hard work, had cut my dear brother 
off from the pleasure that comes from a trained appreciation of literature 
and music and art, he used to say he dared have no regrets about 
David, — that if his aesthetic tastes were more on a level with those of 
other men of his intelligence his heart and mind might have to undergo 
some leading too, and that he’d be afraid to tamper with David. The 
fact is, the advantages he lacks are trivial in comparison with his 
superiority to the generality of men in all important points. At least, 
I think so.” 

Men acknowledge his ability, I know,” said Gladys. General 
Warren says he made an immense impression on the men whom he in- 
vited to meet him at dinner the other day, and I know the sort of men 
they were, — from whom tribute is tribute. I really wish Mr. Leigh 
cured more to accept invitations and mingle with people. It seems a 
matter of such indifference to him.” 

No, it isn’t altogether,” said Mrs. Acland : he enjoyed that 
dinner at General Warren’s extremely, — notwithstanding the fact that 
I think the distinction of wearing the only frodi-coat in the room came 
home to him a little more on the second occasion than the first. Perhaps 
that had something to do with his declining two or three other invita- 
tions that he has had. The chief reason for this, however, was that 
he wanted to give up his time as much as possible to me. Do you 
know, the forms are beginning to make some little impression on 
David ! He actually came to me the other day and asked me, quite 
meekly, if his ordinary sack-coat and pantaloons would be improper 
for him to wear when he went to ride with you ! not that he cared for 
himself, but he felt that there might be some reflection on you if he 
were not properly equipped. But I assured him that his costume was 
correct enough. You thought so too, I hope?” 

I should think so, indeed !” said Gladys. Why, he looked 
superb. I never saw a man sit a horse so well or look so at his ease 
in a saddle. I can assure you I felt nothing but pride in my cavalier. 
I asked him how he learned to ride, and he said by the same sort of 
process as he learned to breathe, so far as he knew : he could remember 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


353 


the first essay at one as well as the other. It is that, I suppose, that 
gives him his splendid seat and bearing in the saddle. Do you know, 
I really enjoy his difference from other men 

And so do said Mrs. Acland : only you dofft begin to under- 
stand how great it is as yet. I want to tell you, by the way, what he 
had to say about your riding-equipment. When he came in from his first 
ride with you he stated that all his theories on the subject of a lady’s 
riding-costume had undergone a change. ^ I always thought,’ he said, 
^ that the ideal thing for a lady on horseback was a long flowing skirt, 
and a beplumed hat, with floating streamers of gauze veiling ; but see- 
ing Miss Gladys in her short, scant skirt, neat body, and high hat has 
worked a revolution. It is more sensible, certainly. I’m finding out 
that I’m very green and provincial ; but at least I’m open to correc- 
tion.’ Then he hesitated a moment, and suddenly asked abruptly if I 
supposed you had trousers on, under your skirt, and when I told him 
I was sure of it, he frowned a little, and then laughed, and said, ^ As 
if a thing like that could matter with her P and I am sure became 
reconciled on the spot.” 

Gladys laughed gayly, as she got up to take leave. 

By the way,” she said, I haven’t told you one piece of news. 
Mr. Locksly has gone.” 

Gone ! Gone where ?” said her friend, a tone of relief min- 
gling with her surprise. 

Gone into infinite space, so far as I know, or shall make it my 
concern to know. At all events, gone out of my path and life forever.” 

Oh, Gladys, I am so thankful !” said Mrs. Acland, fervently. 
^^But when was this? — and why? Did he speak to you, and did 
you ” She ended abruptly. 

Yes, he spoke to me, and I- ” The sentence was finished by 

a significant little nod. If I hadn’t been rather preoccupied at the 
time, I think my vanity would have had a little shock at the clear con- 
viction borne in upon me that his feelings were not seriously involved 
at all, and that he really cared as little about me as I could have de- 
sired. However, I congratulate myself upon that fact. It spares me 
the necessity of a single pang about him.” 

She could not help laughing at the fervent little squeeze which her 
friend bestowed upon her at parting, and the significance of the kiss 
she gave her. 

Why, if I had just announced to you an auspicious engagement 
of marriage,” she said, you could hardly have received it with a more 
impressive cordiality. What a curious creature you are, Mrs. Acland ! 
I don’t know what to make of you.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

The day following the conversation just recorded, Eastmere was 
visited by one of the cold rains which sometimes came even in the 
midst of the summer season. In the evening Mrs. Montaveril, in 
spite of the elements, went to a dinner, and Gladys was left at home. 


354 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


with the prospect of a long evening to herself. She prepared to spend 
it in a pretty little room cut off from the great drawing-room and fur- 
nished with much care as her own particular sanctum. Here she had 
a book-case, containing the works of her favorite authors, and here she 
kept her work-table, writing-desk, and other special belongings. 

Her costume this evening was a long white gown, of some light 
woollen fabric, simply made, but yet a thing of beauty, with its creamy 
softness of tint and its pliant drapery. The lace of the bodice fell 
apart at the fair throat and hung back from the lovely hands. She 
had put some crimson roses in her breast, more for the sake of their 
odor than any other effect, as she felt pretty secure from visitors this 
evening, and had not cared to make a toilet. 

It is doubtful, however, whether, with any pains, she could have 
been dressed to better effect. As she sat in a deep arm-chair, drawn 
up before the fire, with her little slippers mounted on a hassock before 
her, and her slim body thrown back at ease, with her hands clasped at 
the back of her head, and an unopened book in her lap, the young 
heiress was a vision fair to see. Her gaze was bent upon the fire, and 
her face looked thoughtful. Her sweet, serene eyes had that austere 
and nun-like look in them that was one of their most natural expres- 
sions. The luxury, the costliness, the sumptuous ease, of her sur- 
roundings rather enhanced than detracted from this look, and made it 
seem that all these accidents were no part of the woman, who was as 
completely herself here as if, instead of those rich accessories, her body 
was clad in serge and sackcloth and her face looked out through con- 
vent bars. 

Presently a bell tinkled, far away, but Gladys, in her absorption, 
did not hear it. Then a footstep approached along the hall ; but not 
until it had paused before the open door and the visitor had uttered her 
name did Gladys rouse herself from her revery. She stood up, her 
slender body looking very tall and straight in its long plain draperies, 
and extended her Avhite hand in gracious welcome to her guest. It was 
David Leigh, and it seemed almost a pity he could not know, by the 
light of contrast, how rare a greeting she was giving him. Gladys 
knew it, and half wondered to find herself so glad to see him. Per- 
haps she felt that any other visitor in the world — except perhaps his 
sister — would have been felt to be an intruder by her just now, but 
David harmonized precisely with her mood. 

He took another deep chair near her, as the girl resumed her seat, 
and said, in his simple way, — 

You look mighty cosey and snug here, contrasted with what’s 
going on outside. What were you thinking about, when I interrupted 
you ?” 

was thinking about you,’’ said Gladys, half mischievously, 
though she blushed a little. For an instant she regretted her impulsive 
speech, but for an instant only, for David answered, in the same easy 
way,— 

That was mighty kind in you, and I hope it wasn’t anything bad. 
I’d like to believe, when I’m gone, that you did think about me some- 
times.” 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


355 


"You are not going soon, I hope?^^ said Gladys. "Are you?’^ 

" Yes,^^ said David, " and that^s not the worst of it. It seems to 
me Fm going so mortal far, — into a different world. I’m afraid I’m 
going to have hard work to be contented with it, after the pleasure of 
these days at Eastmere. I’ll tell you the truth about it : I don’t want 
to go, one bit.” 

" Don’t go,” said Gladys, — oh, so gently ! — bending her lovely eyes 
upon him, and speaking in a low, persuasive voice. " Why should 
people go away from where they are enjoying themselves ?” she went 
on, in a lighter tone. " I’m sure I never would.” 

"I have to,” David answered, simply; "and that brings me to 
something I have been wanting an opportunity to say to you.” He 
'paused a moment, and then added, " It is about Constance.” 

" Dear Mrs. Acland !” said Gladys, tenderly. " I hope you are 
going to give me something to do for her.” 

" What haven’t you done for her ?” said David. " You have done 
the utmost that anybody can do. You have helped her a little to bear 
her awful burden of sorrow. 

" I wish you could have known Acland,” he went on, after a mo- 
ment’s silence. " If you had, I believe you would fe^l with me that, 
much as poor Constance’s grief is to be pitied, it is still a source of 
comfort to see him so worthily loved and so tenderly cherished in 
memory. If Constance could have taken her widowhood in the com- 
mon way, I should have felt that she was unworthy to have been the 
wife of Arthur Acland. God knows he was well loved, while he lived, 
and if ever man deserved it he did ; and now that he has passed into 
silence he is well loved still, and remembered as such a man deserves 
to be remembered. Human love has seemed to me a better thing since 
I have seen with my own eyes that, for once at least, the grave is 
powerless to prevail against' it.” 

" You said ^ passed into silence’ just now. Do you know, with her, 
that silence is not altogether unbroken, I think? I believe she does 
hear him speak to her at times, as soul to soul, — or else her strong 
imagination makes her feel it so.” 

" God knows. To me, the worst part of death is that awful, mys- 
terious, relentless silence. I look at the poor girl sometimes and won- 
der how she bears it. She couldn’t, with the love she had for Acland, 
without supernatural aid. I know people do it every day, — people 
who have no faith and no hope of reunion even, — but there are differ- 
ent kinds and degrees of love, and Constance’s was strongest in kind and 
highest in degree, and, whatever other men and women may do, Con- 
stance’s kind of love could never be but once. You must feel that this 
is so : don’t you ?” 

" Oh, I do !” said Gladys, fervently ; " I never doubted it ; but 
I’m glad, from my heart, that that sort of love is rare. It is what I 
should flee from more than anything in the world.” 

She saw that David looked surprised at this, and she fancied he 
looked a little disappointed as well. He did not speak immediately, 
and something prompted her to say, almost involuntarily, — 

"Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you too have an instinct to escape 


356 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


from such a love as that, which, however sweet and enduring, must 
come to an end at last by the merciless hand of death 

But suppose I denied that ? Suppose I believed that death was 
powerless to end a love like that V’ 

But do you believe it ? Does any one but Constance really be- 
lieve that 

‘‘ Yes,’^ said David, I do believe it. I feel it, in a way that is 
stronger than any mere reasoning belief. The mere contemplation of 
a love like that makes me feel, as some one says, that ‘ anything that 
can end is too short.’ If you had seen what the married life of Ac- 
land and Constance was, I believe you would feel it too. Their brief 
little earthly union was like a glimpse of heaven to me. Acland was 
a most sensitively organized man, full of talent and of beautiful tastes 
for painting and poetry and nature and music, and more or less accom- * 
plished in all these arts. He and Constance used to sing so charm- 
ingly together : she has never uttered a note since he died, poor girl, 
except to sing Con to sleep sometimes, but her voice used to be beautiful, 
and Acland delighted in it. They made little sketches together in their 
country rambles, and he read his favorite books to her while she sewed. 
When Con was born, his health was already failing, but they seemed 
to lose sight of it in their delight in the child. If ever people’s cup 
of happiness seemed full, theirs did then ; but how soon it was dashed 
to the ground !” 

Oh,” exclaimed Gladys, with a deep breath of emotion, nothing 
can ever seem as sad to me as the fate poor Mrs. Acland has to bear !” 

Yes,” said David, one thing is sadder, — to love like that and 
feel that death ends it. That is the saddest thing.” 

Gladys was silent. She knew not w’^hat to say in answer to these 
words. Her own religious belief was such an unformed and unliving 
thing that it was little to her but a name. 

Presently David Leigh went on, in an altered voice : 

All this has led me away from something I had to say to you this 
evening. I told you it was about Constance, and you may have divined 
that what I wanted to speak of was my gratitude to you for all you 
have been to her.” 

I certainly should not have divined it,” Gladys said, for I feel 
that I have received infinitely more than I have given.” 

Perhaps there is something to be said on that side too, for I can 
imagine that Constance’s friendship must be something very dear to such 
a woman as you are ; but I can’t express to you the satisfaction I have 
felt in seeing her in the full enjoyment of such an intercourse as this. 
It has been a great disappointment to me that Constance and Con did 
not come to live with me, which was what I had planned. Whether or 
not I share the feeling that binds her to this spot, I am forced to hold 
it sacred, and I see that for the present she must remain here. Perhaps 
she may come to feel differently, and then ” 

I don’t believe she ever will,” said Gladys. I am almost sure 
she will live and die here.” 

It may be ; but I doubt it. Nature is strong, and life has too 
many interests to be arbitrarily constrained, and I think she will come 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


357 


to feel that she can love her husband as well^ and give herself as de- 
votedly to him, by giving herself the more to others also ; and I look 
to the necessities which will arise in the matter of Con’s education and 
intercourse with others to work a change. If she feels the sacrifice of 
her own wishes to be incumbent upon her for Con’s sake, she will feel 
that it would be her husband’s wish that she should make the sacrifice, 
and she will do it. Besides, I do see a change in her. She is more 
cheerful : though the change has been very gradual, it is perceptible, 
and it encourages me to hope for the poor girl’s broken life a serenity 
and peace which ought to be the outgrowth of such faith as hers. And 
now,” he went on, am going to take the liberty of asking something 
as to your own future plans, Miss Gladys. How long are you likely 
to be here, and what follows after you leave this place?” 

can do pretty much as I please,” said Gladys, rather sadly. 

I shall stay here to the very end of the season certainly, and I could 
stay longer. I have made no plans.” 

am immensely relieved to know you will be here all the season,” 
said David. Of course, with the demands upon you that there must 
be elsewhere, you certainly would not stay here longer ; but it makes 
me feel much better satisfied in leaving Constance. I wish I could half 
say what I feel toward you for your love and companionship to Con- 
stance. I never dared to hope for such a pleasure as this for her.” 

^^She has told me,” he went on, presently, ^Ghat you had been 
abroad some time before coming here ; but your home is in New York, 
is it not ?” 

Somehow that little word home, in the sense in which she knew 
David Leigh would make use of it, smote upon her now. She thought 
of the dreary splendor of those walls and ceilings and floors, and it 
seemed a very soulless embodiment of the idea. 

^^We have a house in New York,” she said, where my step- 
mother and I will probably spend the winter, but I don’t expect to like 
it enough to stay there very long. I give you my word I should look 
forward to the winter with more pleasure if I thought I should spend 
the whole of it at Eastmere with Constance.” 

Just at this moment, perhaps,” said David, smiling. You are 
in a sort of world-weary mood, it may be, which even the fortunate 
Miss Montaverils of life may Iiave a glimpse of at times. To-morrow, 
however, you would recoil at the dreariness of the prospect, — and nat- 
urally enough ! For my part, it is a pleasure to me to think of the 
wideness of your sphere. Your influence must be very great.” 

Don’t !” said Gladys, throwing out her hand, as if to ward off 
something. I don’t like you to say that, whether you are in jest or 
earnest.” 

“ In jest ! My dear young lady, I never was more in earnest in 
my life ; but I won’t say it, if you’d rather not. I don’t want to take 
any upbraiding looks of yours with me, to think about when I’m 
smoking my evening pipe in my solitude far away.” 

Do you live alone ?” asked Gladys. 

David nodded. 

My room is over my office,” he said. 


358 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


And where do you get your meals 
At the hotel/^ 

‘‘Isn’t it very dreary?” asked the young girl, rather wistfully. 

“Very, sometimes.” 

“ Why don’t you come here and live with Constance?” said Gladys, 
smiling at her own absurdity, but speaking with great interest. 

“ For one thing, because the matter of daily bread has to be con- 
sidered,” said David. 

“Couldn’t you leave there? Is there any reason why you should 
not move to some larger and more central place, where you would have 
a wider scope ?” 

“ For what ?” said David, smiling. 

“Well, let us say your talents and ability.” 

“ How do you know these are not already amply acknowledged ?” 

“ Oh, I don’t know,” said Gladys ; “ only I never heard of you, 
and it seems odd to me now that I haven’t.” 

David laughed, and so did she, and then the girl went on : 

“ But, seriously, couldn’t you leave that place ?” 

“ I could, of course, in one sense ; that is, there is nothing beyond 
my own choice to constrain me; and yet, looking at the matter in 
another point of view, — no, I couldn’t.” 

“ Can you tell me why ?” 

“ Not explicitly, in the limited time we have, but it’s a sort of feel- 
ing that I belong there. I have blamed other men for leaving their 
own communities and the interests they were born to, for their own 
material advancement, and it is what I will never do. All my interests 
and ambitions and sympathies centre around those people. Perhaps, 
in my case, the possibilities offered by emigration were not great enough 
to be much of a bait, but, at any rate, I have felt all along a pretty 
strong call to stand my ground, and devote my services, such as they 
are, to my own people.” 

“ If you care for them so much,” said Gladys, “ it can’t be much 
of a sacrifice for you to stay among them.” 

“ I have never felt it so, I assure you,” said David, “ and I do care 
for them very much.” 

“How do you mean? On a basis of broad philanthropy, or ^in- 
dividually ?” 

“ Both.” 

“ Is there a good society there ?” asked the girl, feeling the moment 
the words had left her lips that they were superficial and inappro- 
priate. 

“ I think so,” he said. “ There is a good deal of narrow-mindedness, 
but so I believe there is everywhere. There is also among my people 
a good deal of ignorance of the conventionalities, but the essence of 
good society seems to me to pervade and permeate that place a good 
deal more than Eastmere.” 

“ Eastmere ! It might easily do that,” said Gladys. “ But that 
subject is too vast for us to enter upon now.” 

“ I have overstayed my time already,” said David, rising. “ Con- 
stance will be wondering what has become of me.” Then he held out 


HONORED IN TEE BREACH. 359 

his hand, and as she laid hers within it he added, WeVe had a nice 
long talk : haven^t we with the ingenuousness of a boy. 

Gladys kept her seat, looking up at him with positive enjoyment 
of his stalwart comeliness. She was thinking that he was the most 
patrician-looking man she had ever seen, and trying to analyze what it 
was that made him look as different from the other men she knew as 
his conversation had already proved him to be different. Was it the 
mere fact of his being a Southerner, of a different type from any she 
had hitherto been thrown with ? That couldn’t account for all. 

She rose to her feet, and drew her hand away, and turned with him 
from the room. 

I wonder if the rain is over,” she said, feeling a sudden need of 
conventional words. 

Will you come outside and see?” said David, as he stepped into 
the porch. The air feels sweet and refreshing.” 

She followed him out into the wide piazza, which they found to be 
flooded with moonlight. The clouds had rolled away, in great high- 
piled masses, and a glorious summer moon was sailing aloft. Gladys 
walked to the end of the porch with him, and they stood a moment 
there together, their faces turned upward, alone in the stillness. The 
roses near at hand sent forth a delicious fragrance, and just beneath 
their feet there was a bed of fresh damp mignonette. 

A scene like this,” said Gladys, breaking the silence presently, in 
a soft low tone, reminds me of two lines of poetry I read somewhere : 

This world is very lovely. O my God, 

I thank thee that I live !” 

^^If that quotation had occurred to me,” said David, should 
have thought it was rather my own state of mind than the scene about 
me that called it forth. To me it seems that nature never creates a 
mood : she but reflects what we feel. If I had looked out upon this 
lovely moonlit scene to-night conscious of a restless and unhappy heart, 
I am sure I should have found nothing but sadness in it. As it is, I 
feel happy to-night, — incomprehensibly happy, — and it seemed to me 
you spoke out the very thought of my heart when you uttered those 
words. Do you feel so too? Are you glad to be alive, for all the 
great possibilities life has to offer?” 

Yes,” said Gladys, speaking low, I am glad. I am often afraid 
and restless, but to-night I am glad, like you.” 

He took her hand again, and said good-night. Then, — 

^^Do not be afraid,” he added, softly. Trust God and the in- 
stincts of your own high soul, and there is nothing in this world or the 
next for such as you to fear. And remember that thought that is the 
chief comfort of Constance’s life : 

“ If my bark sink, Tis to another sea.’’ 

She made no sound in answer, and a minute later she found her- 
self alone. 


360 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Gladys returned to New York and to the old life there, and settled 
down to a routine of dinners and balls and receptions of which she very 
soon began to weary. Early in December a bright thought came to her, 
and she wrote and invited herself to Eastmere to spend Christmas with 
Constance and Con. The proposition being joyfully welcomed, she next 
asked Mrs. MontaveriFs young sister, Miss Minnie Ross, to take her 
place at home, and everytliing was settled to the satisfaction of all con- 
cerned. 

The evening before the day fixed for her departure for Eastmere, 
Gladys gave a ball in honor of Miss Ross. The invitations were nu- 
merous, and the affair was to be very brilliant. The young heiress, 
with her usual munificence, had presented Miss Ross with a splendid 
dress for the occasion, and as that young lady came down adorn^ in it, 
the evening of the party, the hue of her mind was a perfect match to 
her rose-colored costume. Gladys herself was in pale-green velvet, 
made long and plain, with a high collar at the neck, that sloped toward 
the front and bordered her square corsage. The long tight sleeves were 
made in some quaint fashion that set up high on the shoulders with an 
effect that certain old pictures have familiarized us with. A loose gold 
girdle hung around her waist, supporting at her side a downy fan of 
white feathers, and a gold bracelet of some odd antique design was 
clasped outside the white glove on one arm, while a collar that matched 
it was fastened close around her long white throat. 

But Gladys in any dress was Gladys still, and as she stood there, in 
this lovely costume, arrayed for a gathering of worldlings, being herself 
of the world, worldly, and looked up at her little butterfly of a guest, 
descending the stairs toward her, the uplifted eyes wore still that nun- 
like look that in some degree always belonged to them. 

The last guest had arrived, and the ball was at its height. The air 
was melodious with dreamy waltz- tunes and fragrant with hot-house 
flowers. The halls, bow-windows, and all available spaces were 
thronged with people, the many-colored hues of the women^s dresses 
throwing into relief the monotonous black and white of the men’s. 
Just as Gladys had begun to feel that her guardianship of her young 
charge might now be relaxed, as Miss Ross’s happy hands were full to 
overflowing with engagements for the evening, there came to the young 
heiress’s great front door an unexpected guest. 

A gentleman, tall and straight and strongly built, paused before the 
entrance, mounted the steps, and laid his hand upon the bell. Hearing 
the music within, and seeing the blaze of lights, he paused an instant, 
as if in doubt, but the hesitation was only momentary. Then he rang 
the bell and asked for Miss Montaveril. The footman looked at him 
in perplexity. Miss Montaveril was at home, he said, but she was 

giving a ball to-night, and The pause which followed indicated 

a strong sense, on the part of the servant, that this was an unexpected 
and unprepared guest. This guest, however, was not to be deterred 
from a purpose so earnest as the one he had in view, just now, by any 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


361 


such trifling considerations as these. He did not feel for his card- 
case, for the reason, probably, that he had none. Indeed, it is doubt- 
ful if this gentleman had ever possessed such an implement of civiliza- 
tion, or even felt the lack of it before. It did occur to him now that 
it would be a convenience, but, being without it, he gave his name very 
distinctly to the man, and told him to tell Miss Montaveril that Mr. 
Leigh, from the South, would be glad if she could speak with him for 
a moment, if not particularly engaged. 

While the man was gone off on this errand, David awaited his 
return in the vestibule, from which through the partly-opened door he 
could command a view of the interior. To his unsophisticated eyes, 
the scene before him seemed little less than a vision of fairy-land. The 
glittering chandeliers, with their crystal pendants and sparkling lights 
and their festoons of flowers and smilax, the tiled hall, over which the 
ladies^ beautiful dresses slid noiselessly along, the narrowing vista of 
lights and people which he caught sight of in the distance, the harmo- 
nious swell of the music in the dancing-room, the warm breath of the 
perfumed air, all combined to form an influence so entrancing that he 
was almost startled when he found his messenger again at his side, 
deferentially requesting him to submit himself to his guidance. As he 
entered, and walked down the long hall, brilliant with statuary and 
pictures and burnished armor, following the lead of the decorous foot- 
man, every eye was turned upon him. He had already felt the heat of 
the house, and taken off his overcoat, which he carried across his arm, 
with his hat in his hand, and, although his dress was certainly incon- 
gruous and his position anomalous, probably the densest person there 
never for a moment made the mistake of supposing him to be anything 
but what he was, — a gentleman-guest ; though the theory of his being 
a belated musician, or a confectioner's man who had stupidly come to the 
wrong door, would have been, to them, much more plausible. 

More than one person murmured aloud an expression of wonder as 
to who that striking-looking man could be, and perhaps a few of the 
ladies rebelled when the portiere at the end of the hall fell to behind 
him and hid him from further view. 

Beyond that portal was the supper-room, — a beautiful apartment, 
fairly dazzling now with its myriad lights blazing down upon a glitter- 
ing array of china, glass, and silver, together with a wealth of leafage 
and bloom, and such specimens of the caterer's and confectioner’s art 
as could be put in place prior to the important moment for supper to 
be served. 

To the farther end of this spacious room Mr. Leigh followed his 
guide, who now paused before a curtained recess, and, holding back the 
drapery, asked Mr. Leigh to take a seat for a few moments here, add- 
ing that Miss Montaveril would join him as soon as possible. David 
sank upon one of the low cushioned seats of the great bow-window, 
and the drapery fell to behind him, leaving him alone in this curtained 
seclusion. The brilliant light from the room streamed in through the 
arch above the thick gilt rod that held the curtains, and the far-away 
sound of music fell with a softened cadence on his ear. 

Only a few moments had he waited, when suddenly, softly, swiftly. 


362 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


the h^eavy curtain was drawn aside, and in the opening thus made, her 
figure clearly outlined against the brilliant light behind, appeared 
Gladys, — tall, sweet, beautiful Gladys, — her wonderful long green robe 
falling richly about her, one lovely ann uplifted against the dark rich- 
ness of the curtain, and the other stretched out in cordial greeting to 
her guest. The look in her beautiful face matched it well, as she said, 
in her earnest tones, — 

First of all I must say how welcome you are, and then I must 
apologize for sending you to this out-of-the-way nook, but I could 
think of nowhere else where there was a chance of our having a little 
undisturbed talk. It is a great surprise to see you. When did you 
get to New York?’^ 

I have not been in the city an hour,^^ said David. I made all 
possible haste to see you before it should be too late. My fear was 
lest I might find your house still and dark, and your household wrapped 
in slumber ; and the startling contrast to that picture took me completely 
by surprise. I venture, however, to intrude upon you for a few mo- 
ments, to let you know that I am going on to Eastmere to-morrow, 
and 

So am cried Gladys, joyfully, interrupting his sentence. 

I know it,^’ he said, in a tone as satisfied as hers. Constance 
wrote me of it, a day or two ago. I had been laying my plans for 
some time to spend Christmas at Eastmere, but I was not certain I 
could do it, and I said nothing to Constance about it, preferring, at any 
rate, to take her by surprise.^’ 

Then she doesn’t know ?” asked Gladys. How delightful ! We 
will go on together, to-morrow, and how welcome I shall be when it’s 
seen whom I have brought with me !” 

^^You don’t need me to make you welcome there,” said David. 
^^You know that well enough. But, now that we understand the 
matter, I must fly. May I come for you in time for the afternoon 
train to-morrow ?” 

^^Yes,” said Gladys, ^^do. But tell me, have you had any 
supper ?” 

Not yet. I will get some when I go back to the hotel.” 

Not at all ! You will get it just here and now, and I will take 
mine with you,” said Gladys. We will have time to get through 
comfortably before the general supper-time comes.” 

And, without heeding his protest, she flitted away, and presently 
returned, followed by a servant, who speedily set out a dainty little 
table for two, in the bow-window. With her own hands she took 
from the magnificent supper-table a bunch of superb rose-buds which 
formed the apex of one of the centre-pieces, and arranged it in the 
middle of the little table. Then she gave an order to the servant 
which he hurried away to obey, and in a short while an exquisite little 
supper was served, which they sat down to with much zest together. 
Gladys looked on with quiet enjoyment, observing with inward amuse- 
ment how characteristic David was in all that he did. When he per- 
sisted in declining a certain dish she offered, she was half disappointed, 
and said, — 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 303 

I wish you would try it. I think it is really good. Don^t you 
like it?’^ 

I don’t know what it is/’ said David. I never tasted it, and so 
I can’t say whether I like it or not. Don’t ask me to try experiments 
to-night. Everything, as it is, is so exactly to my taste. Isn’t it nice 
and cosey our taking supper together here by ourselves? I hardly 
know what to make of all this kindness.” 

Surely you have not finished ?” Gladys said, remonstrantly, as she 
saw him folding up his napkin. Indeed you need not hurry on my 
account. My step-mother has her sister with her, and I am not 
needed.” 

I have quite done, alas !” said David, and I cannot reconcile it 
to my conscience to keep you here any longer. You must let me take 
you back now.” 

He spoke not a second too soon. Gladys had been just on the point 
of designating a mode of egress which should be more private than the 
principal entrance he had come by, when he announced this rather 
startling intention of his. The young hostess had strongly regretted 
that David’s presence to-night should be attended by circumstances 
which made it impossible for him to remain as one of the guests of the 
evening ; but it had never entered her head that these circumstances 
were in the nature of a surmountable obstacle. After all, what was 
this obstacle? Simply that Mr. Leigh was well dressed in one way 
instead of another way. He did not even have on a frock-coat this 
evening, but was wearing the clothes he had travelled in, made of a 
rough mixed material, with the coat cut close and short and tightly 
buttoned up. He was a highly distinguished-looking man, however, 
Gladys reflected, observing about him more than usually what she 
always admired in him most, — his unlikeness to other men. Certainly 
in this his conduct matched his appearance and his apparel. There was 
a uniqueness in his readiness to enter a New York ball-room in this 
costume that was to Miss Montaveril extremely piquant. She con- 
gratulated herself, therefore, that she had not mentioned the side- 
entrance. 

If you are quite sure you won’t have anything else,” said Gladys, 
let some one take your hat and overcoat, and give me your arm and 
we’ll go and find Eloise. She’ll be glad to see you.” 

There is one thing else I’ll have,” said David, standing still and 
looking down at her. ‘^I’ll have a flower, if you’ll give me one, to 
take back to the hotel with me as a tangible proof that I have not 
dreamed this little supper with you, and that Santa Claus isn’t fooling 
me about our going to Eastmere together to-morrow, to spend Christ- 
mas.” 

Gladys selected the finest of the rose-buds and handed it to him, 
smiling. He did not put it in his coat. He had never worn a flower 
in his button-hole, nor the style of costumes that went well with that 
decoration, so he simply accepted the rose and kept it in his hand. 

^^I’m not going to stay,” he said. ‘‘All these people are strangers 
to me, and I can’t expect to detain you any longer. I will see Mrs. 
Montaveril and take a peep at all the pretty things, human and other- 


364 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


wise^ in yonder, and then I must go. IVe been travelling night and 
day, and I want a good night^s rest.^^ 

Declining her offer to have his hat and coat taken, he threw the 
latter over one arm, and, giving the other arm to Gladys, and taking 
his hat in his hand, they moved off toward the great drawing-room. 

Even if Gladys had been less lovely than she was, her position as 
hostess would have made her a conspicuous figure, and David Leigh, 
for his part, if he had been less oddly dressed, could have escaped 
notice in no assemblage where a striking presence would have attracted 
attention : so it was very natural that, as this couple traversed the 
length of the long drawing-room at the farther end of which Mrs. 
Montaveril sat, with a group of chaperones, every eye was turned upon 
them, and a moment^s hush was perceptible in the hum of conversation. 
Gladys observed it, but she was quite sure her companion did not : the 
cause was too far from his consciousness. 

For almost the only time in Gladyses knowledge of her step-mother, 
Mrs. Montaveril was for a moment thrown off her guard, and rose, at 
their approach, with a visibly fluttered air. This vanished almost in- 
stantly, however, at David Leigh^s simple greeting, as straightforward 
and unconcerned as if he had been in one of the little parlors of his 
native town. He explained to Mrs. Montaveril his sudden appearance 
and the fact that he was going on with Gladys next day to Eastmere, 
but he made no apology tor his costume. The fact was (though no 
power could have borne this in to Mrs. MontaveriPs consciousness), he 
had forgotten his costume. Of course it was the wrong thing, but how 
was he to know that Miss Montaveril would be having a party ? He 
had accounted for it to himself so simply that he had forgotten that he 
owed any accountability to others. 

After he had talked a few minutes to Miss Montaveril and the 
ladies to whom she had introduced him, he said good-evening and went 
away. Gladys watched him with a zest she could hardly interpret to 
herself, as his tall figure made its way past the strongly-contrasting 
groups of men and women in the hall and vanished through the door- 
way. 


CHAPTER XV. 

When David Leigh reached Miss MontaveriPs house, the next 
afternoon, in compliance with his engagement to take her to the train, 
a smart little lady^s-cart was standing before the door, with a glossy, 
short-tailed horse in front of it, at whose head a trim groom was 
standing. He touched his hat respectfully to Mr. Leigh as the latter 
mounted the steps and rang the bell. 

The man who admitted him said that Miss Montaveril would be 
down at once, and in a few moments Gladys joined him in the drawing- 
room, which, in its perfect orderliness, showed no signs of last nighPs 
festivities, except for such of the floral decorations as had been allowed 
to remain. 

Neither did Miss Montaveril herself show any signs of having 
assisted at a ball over-night, for she was fresh and blooming as a new- 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


366 


opened flower, this morning, in her neat, gray travelling dress, so plain 
and close that it clad her like a sheath. She was buttoning on a stout 
little pair of gloves as she approached him, saying, gayly, — 

The day is so perfect, and the drive to the station such a long one, 
that I ordered the cart and thought I would drive you down in that 
way, so that we might have a better opportunity for looking about us 
and getting the air. Shall we go now 

Mrs. Montaveril and Miss Ross were in the hall, to say good-by, 
and when Gladys had received their light kisses and David had shaken 
hands, the pair stepped out into the street, and the great door closed 
behind them. 

When David handed Gladys into the little trap, she seated herself 
on the right side. 

The other side, please,^^ said David, reminding her gently. 

But I want to sit on this side, because I am going to drive,^^ 
said Gladys, without moving. 

No, you are not,^^ said David, gravely, lowering his voice that the 
groom might not hear. I canT let you do that.’^ 

Gladys instantly shifted her seat, without a word, and David got in 
and took the reins. As soon as he did so, the groom let go the horse’s 
head, and the restive animal started forward. David, however, drew 
him in and made him stand quite still, waiting considerately until the 
man had mounted to his seat behind and settled himself there in such 
stiflP semblance of comfort as he permitted himself. There had been a 
smile in Miss Montaveril’s eyes before, but at this her pretty lips 
quivered so dangerously that she had much ado to keep them in order, 
as her companion gave the horse his head and they bowled swiftly 
along. The groom, behind, had himself under better control, for, after 
a momentary twinkle in his eyes, his sense of amusement was sum- 
marily suppressed. 

David Leigh, for his part, was very far from either feeling in him- 
self or suspecting in others any sense of amusement whatever. As 
Gladys talked gayly on, pointing out the direction to him and making 
comments on passing objects, he was unusually silent, and not until 
they had reached the station and dismissed the groom with the carriage 
did he seem freed from a constraint which his manner had indicated 
throughout the entire drive. Then, even before they entered the 
station, he exclaimed, in an eager tone, — 

Forgive me. Miss Gladys; though how I am ever to forgive 
myself, I cannot see.” 

Forgive you?” said Gladys, gently, with a pleasant, imresentful 
smile. You have not offended me.” . 

^^Then it is only because of your tremendous kindness,” David 
said. It was an unpardonable liberty that I took. I spoke from an 
instinct I have against seeing a lady drive at all ; but seeing a lady 
driving when there is a man seated at her side, seemed to go so against 
my feelings that I allo^wed myself to be betrayed into a great rudeness. 
Thank you heartily for taking it so sweetly. I deserved punishment.” 

^^Oh, these things are matters of custom,” said Gladys, lightly. 

It is very usual here. Don’t the ladies drive in the South ?” 


366 


HONORED IN TEE BREACH 


They are beginDing to do it, but I don’t like it,” said David. I 
disapprove of it in general because I think it unsafe, and in particular 
because I think it ” 

Unwomanly ?” asked Gladys, as he paused. If you say that,” 
she added, smiling, I’ll never drive again.” 

I wouldn’t have used that word,” said David, particularly when 
I remember the many times I’ve seen Constance driving Acland about 
in their little phaeton at Eastmere. But then Acland was a sick man, 
and as long as I continue to be a well one you shall not drive me about. 
Miss Gladys, although I’ll take pains, in future, to assert myself with 
less rudeness. I assure you, after I had spoken to you in that un- 
pardonable way I felt so ashamed of myself that, but for the groom’s 
being within hearing, and the public within sight, I could have gone 
down on my knees to ask for your forgiveness.” 

I assure you it was much more agreeable to me to give it to you 
sitting,” said Gladys, answering his smile with another. But I must 
repeat that I was not offended. I was amused a little, and I think I 
was even a little bit pleased.” 

Well, you’re mighty sweet to say so, anyway,” said David, as if 
he didn’t entirely rely upon her own version of her feelings. 

They had been pacing up and down the platform during this talk, 
being a little ahead of time, but now they got on the train and took 
their places, and in a few minutes more were whizzing along toward 
Eastmere. 

During the hours of travel, heavy clouds had gathered, and by the 
time the journey’s end was reached the snow was falling thickly. The 
winter’s twilight was closing in as the train drew up at the Eastmere 
station, and the ground, as far as the eye could reach, was covered with 
a mantle of snow well suited to Christmas Eve. 

Mrs. Acland had sent a carriage, with a trustworthy driver, to meet 
Gladys, supposing, of course, that she would be alone. As they drove 
along over the noiseless streets of the deserted town, where only an 
occasional light gleamed here and there, showing dimly through the 
thick-falling snow-flakes, it was difficult to realize that this could be the 
gay and populous watering-place, which Gladys had never seen before 
except in its gala time. 

Her long talk with David in the train had been full of interest and 
inspiration to her, and she felt herself in a state of conscious well-being 
which she had perhaps never experienced in such measure before. 

They must have been keen ears that were listening for those carriage- 
wheels, for, in spite of the muffling effect of the snow, they had been 
heard, and as the horses paused in front of the little gate the house 
door was thrown open, and a cheery flood of lamp-light streamed out 
upon the snowy -path. The curtains to the familiar little drawing-room 
were drawn back also, and everything looked bright with expectation. 

As Gladys sprang from the carriage ahead of David Leigh, and ran 
up the steps, she saw Constance standing in the open door-way with 
Con at her side, the tall figure in black and the small one in white 
making a pretty silhouette against the bright background. In another 
instant both had seized upon their guest, and were kissing, the one her 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


367 


face and the other her hands, according to their respective opportunities. 
In the midst of this happy confusion, a gruff voice from tlie porch was 
heard to say, If you please, ^m, the lady left her humbrella,’^ and 
every one turned to look. Con, who was timid about strange men, 
flew to Mammy, who stood farther back in the hall ; and what was the 
surprise of both the child and her protector when the next instant 
they beheld Mrs. Acland in the arms of the supposed hackman ! 

As this individual now threw off his hat. Mammy recovered her 
breath, and, with a nearer approach to positive glee than Gladys had 
ever witnessed in this discreet personage before, exclaimed, — 

My marsters ! Eff ^tain^ Marse Davy hisseff f ^ 

Oh, merthy said Con, employing her favorite expletive, as she 
emerged from behind Mammy’s skirts, wrinkling her nose up, with a 
little grin of relief. I thought it wath a man !” 

Happily convinced of the mistakenness of this apprehension, she 
sprang forward and ran to greet her uncle, who promptly mounted her 
on his shoulder and bore her in triumph to the cosey little room near 
by, where, amid much kissing and laughing and rejoicing, the necessary 
explanations were made, to the entire satisfaction of all parties. Then 
Mammy had to be formally greeted, and when she came forward with 
her air of stately humility, and courtesied with her usual self-possession 
as Gladys took her hand, she made a picturesque figure in the pleasant 
domestic group. 

It was the cosiest of tea-tables round which they all gathered a little 
later, and as Con folded her little hands and asked a blessing, every 
heart responded after its own kind. Mrs. Acland looked naore lovely 
to-night than Gladys had ever seen her: excitement had flushed her 
cheeks and made her eyes sparkle, and even Con noticed it, and said, — 
Mother, you ’ook tho pitty. Are you glad to-morrow ith Tith- 
muth ?” 

Yas, darling,” the mother managed to say, before some inward 
feeling that rose could make speech impossible. Neither David nor 
Gladys was surprised to see the tears spring to her eyes. 

When the meal was ended, and the party had adjourned to the 
pretty little room, that looked cosier than ever, with its warm winter 
hangings and bright open fire, round which the lounge and the easiest 
chairs were drawn, Gladys took Con on her lap, and David drew his 
chair near by, and the three fell to talking of Santa Claus and specu- 
lating as to what he probably had in his sleigh that very minute. 

Constance, meanwhile, had slipped away. Leaving that little group 
chatting merrily before the fire, she glided from the room, softly closing 
the door behind her. Once in the hall, her motions became more rapid, 
and she almost ran up the long staircase, and entered her room, shutting 
the door to behind her. There was no light here, and she groped her 
way across the floor in the darkness, stumbling once or twice against the 
objects that came in her way, until she reached the little recess where 
her husband’s picture was, a spot more than any other about the house 
sacred to his memory, and there, throwing up the sash that interposed 
between her and Arthur’s grave, she sank upon her knees and burst 
into smothered sobs. The cold night air came in and chilled her, the 
Yol. XLI.— 24 


368 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


snow-flakes whirled against her face, the keen wind tossed her hair and 
stung her tender flesh, but she heed^ nothing. 

Oh, my precious darling,^^ she sobbed, in half-inarticulate whis- 
pers, don^t think I have forgotten you ! Don’t think I am cruel, to 
laugh and be merry and cheerful, when you are out there in your cold, 
cold grave ! I have not forgotten you one instant. I think of you 
with every smile and bright word I utter. God knows I do, my dar- 
ling : ask Him to let you see it too ! Only be as true to me in heaven 
as I shall be to you on earth, and we shall be happy together again. 
Look down upon me, dear, and you shall see nothing but faithfulness 
in all I do and speak and think. You shall see that no widow that 
ever lived was ever more faithful than your own poor Constance, that 
you loved so well on earth, and that surely you must love still, wherever 
you may be.” 

These words and sentences she uttered brokenly through stifling 
sobs. As she ceased to speak, her bowed head rested still a moment, 
as if in silent prayer. Then she dried her tears and looked up ; but 
before her all was darkness. The snow fell noiselessly ; the relentless 
night wind made her eyes smart, and sent a cold chill through her. 
She raised those tear-strained eyes to heaven. Above was darkness too, 
but, as she looked up, a blessed radiance came into her soul, and her 
poor sad eyes grew calm and hopeful, as if beyond the clouds and snow 
they had seen the light. 

A feeling of sweet tranquillity came over her, as she rose from 
her knees, shut the window, and shook off the snow-flakes that had 
gathered on her dress. She lighted a lamp and bathed her eyes and 
smoothed her hair, and presently went down-stairs with a face so serene 
and cheerful that the loving eyes that greeted her, although they could 
not fail to see the traces of her tears, were able to take comfort in the 
blessed conviction that she was one of those who sorrowed, but not 
without hope. 

^^Come, chickadee,” said the little mother, holding out her hand 
to Con and motioning her to her side, you must come away to bed 
now, so that mother and uncle and Gladys can dress the tree. Mammy 
will stay with you when I come down.” 

Oh, merthy !” said Con, with a sigh of remonstrance, although 
she skipped from Gladys’s lap and prepared to obey. I do with I 
tould thee you dreth the tree.” 

Santa Claus wouldn’t like that at all,” said David : he’d be as 
mad as fury.” 

This argument was all-potent, and Con docilely kissed good-night 
and trotted off. 

Mrs. Acland soon returned, and at once sent David to bring in the 
tree, which had been set up on the back porch, and in a little while the 
neat drawing-room was in a state of wild confusion. Boxes were opened, 
and papers scattered far and wide. David and Gladys had to unpack 
their trunks to get their contributions, and Constance had to make no 
end of hurried trips up- and down-stairs, collecting things; but the 
tree was small, and every one worked with a will, so before midnight 
everything was in place and the tree pronounced a great success. 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


369 


Gladys had never assisted at such a scene before, and she enjoyed 
it thoroughly ; and David, with a contrasting memory of his bachelor 
existence at home, enjoyed it quite as much. 

When Mrs. Acland and her brother were carrying off the boxes 
and papers, Constance suddenly turned aside, and, putting a broo;n into 
her friend^s hands, said, — 

Mammy is with Con, and I have let the maid go to bed : so 
you can just brush up the room, if you please, — provided you know 
how.^^ 

Oh, Constance said David, remonstrantly, although he was 
smiling, fancy Miss Montaveril with a broom in her hand ! What 
will she do with it, I wonder 

She^ll soon show you what she^ll do with it,’^ said Gladys, begin- 
ning to sweep, with an assiduousness that argued more will than capacity. 
Somehow she felt almost hurt at David^s implying that she wouldn^t 
know how to use a broom. 

David threw back his head and laughed, as if he thought the joke 
extremely good. 

I can’t help going back in memory twenty-four hours,” he said, 
^^and recalling the present manipulator of the broom-stick as she 
looked then, in her green velvet and gold, the special object of homage 
to that host of grand people. What a metamorphosis !” 

I believe she’s twice as happy at this moment as she was at that,” 
said Mrs. Acland ; and Gladys thanked her for the speech, with a fer- 
vent glance. She had observed in David Leigh, before, this tendency 
to set her down as a butterfly and a worldling, and she believed, in 
spite of all his courteous kindness of manner, that he rather scorned 
her for it. 

When the room was restored to order, and the tree had again been 
inspected and commended, Mrs. Acland went off to the dining-room 
for some little final adjustment of things there, and as soon as she was 
out of sight David took up a small morocco case which Constance had 
placed among Con’s presents, saying, as he turned to Gladys, — 

I know what this is. Something in the name of her father, for 
the child’s Christmas-gift. This is a sacred custom with Constance.” 

He opened the case and revealed a little loCket on a slender chain. 
Touching the spring of the locket, the lid flew open and showed a little 
circle of hair, plaited in three strands, which showed distinctly three 
different colors. 

It is Acland’s hair, and hers, and the child’s,” said David, half 
under his breath. And look at the inscription !” 

Gladys held the locket to the light, and read : ‘‘ A threefold cord 
is not easily broken.” 

As she gave it back, she had no words to speak. The only answer 
she could give was in her eyes, and even there it was obscured by 
tears. 

It is impossible to feel that a man is dead, when he is loved like 
this,’’ said David, as he quietly put the little box back in its place. 


370 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

It was a homely little room upon which Miss Montaveril opened 
her eyes that Christmas morning, — a great contrast to the sumptuous, 
silk-draped walls of her own apartment ; but if it was homely it was 
also home-like, and the girl was conscious of a strange sense of peace 
and good-will in her heart, and felt as if she had a good Christmas 
day before her. The little maid who brought her hot water and made 
her fire wished her a merry Christmas really as if she meant it, and 
she seemed to herself to have entered into a new world, where formal- 
ism and coldness and artificiality were not. 

• Presently the door flew open, and Con bounced into the middle of 
her bed, crying out, Tithmuth giff, Daddith and scattering abroad 
the contents of her stocking ; and as Gladys drew her under the warm 
bedclothes and hugged her close, the sense of strangeness in the things 
about her increased still more, but so did the sense of sweetness too. 

Mother hath done to father’ th grave,” said Con, and carried the 
lovely wreath’th we made, and all the pi tty f ’owerth. I’m doin’ thith 
evening, if ’tain’t too tole, and take my f ’owerth. It’th Tithmuth in 
heaven, too.” 

In a little while Mammy camp, with her good old face wreathed in 
genuine Christmas smiles, and courtesied her respectful salutations, and 
then carried Con off* to be dressed. Then Gladys got up and made 
her oAvn dainty toilet, and came down-stairs in her long green gown, 
bordered and trimmed with brown fur, with a sprig of holly in her 
breast, and joined the group around the cheerful Christmas fire. Mrs. 
Acland kissed her affectionately, and no allusion was made to the 
widow’s early walk through the deep snow to the grave up on the hill, 
but her gentle face was still glowing with the exercise and exposure and 
her smooth hair somewhat ruffled by the bonnet and veil just laid aside. 

As David Leigh gave Gladys his hand in friendly greeting, their 
eyes met, and that interchange of glances added something sweeter still 
to this morning’s sweet experiences. 

The breakfast that followed was a charming little meal, and the 
faces that gathered around the daintily-spread board were very cheerful 
ones, even that of the black-robed widow, though now and then the 
tears would spring to her eyes and cloud, for an instant, the sight of 
her child’s merry face. 

After breakfast the servants were summoned, the tree was exhibited, 
and the presents interchanged, — such pretty, loving, thoughtful little 
gifts from each to each, that made their hearts still warmer ; and when 
the servants, in their turn, had received their presents, and expressed 
their thanks, and gone, Mrs. Acland said it was time to get ready for 
church. She went off, leading Con by the hand, and David Leigh 
and Gladys were left, for a moment, alone. 

I wonder if you will believe me when I tell you that I never in 
my life have had a present that I liked so well as this,” said Gladys, 
handling tenderly the implements of the exquisite little work-box that 
had been David’s present to her. 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


371 


Not that you^Il know what to do with it !” said David, laughing, 
while the pleasure her words gave him sent a glow from his heart to 
his eyes. 

How can you said Gladys, reproachfully. ‘‘ I do know how 
to sew, and I will know better and do more of it, just for the sake of 
using these delicious little things.* Isn^t it strange that nobody ever 
thought of giving me such a present as this before 

Isn’t it rather strange that anybody should ever have thought of 
it at all?” said David. ‘‘ That may be the strange part.” 

She did not answer in words, but as she passed him and went up- 
stairs he thought her eyes reproached him. 

As Gladys and David walked to church that Christmas morning 
over the snowy Eastmere streets, with Mrs. Acland and Con in front, 
the former in her dense black widow’s dress and veil and the latter in 
a bewitching little white furry coat and cap and muff that had been 
her Christmas-gift from Miss Montaveril, Gladys observed, with some 
surprise, that almost every one who passed recognized the widow’s dark 
figure in spite of its muffling veil, and that the men took off their hats 
to her respectfully, the women bowed, and the children smiled up in 
her face as if some ray of brightness reached them even through her 
veil. 

It was a very humble gathering that they found assembled in the 
colorless, plain little church, but there were many happy children’s 
faces, and tlie looks of earnestness and simplicity on those of the grown 
people had a sweet effect on both Gladys and David. There had been 
some slight attempt at decorations, and the smell of fir and pine and 
cedar was strong on the air. For the first time Gladys heard Constance 
sing, when the weak little organ struck up a Christmas anthem. It 
was a beautiful rich voice, but now, alas, it was sometimes choked with 
tears, which the poor widow could not altogether keep back. Gladys 
thought of the lines, — 

While tears that have no pain 
Are tranquilly distilling, 

And the dead live again, 

In hearts that love is filling, — 

and she knew that these were such tears as that. 

After the service, David and Gladys went off ahead, thinking it 
better to leave the mother, for the present, alone with her child, and 
Con’s merry talk proved indeed the best restorative, for by the time 
the party assembled around the beautiful Christmas dinner Mrs. Ac- 
land’s sweet face had grown cheerful and serene. 

In the afternoon David and Gladys went for a walk. They wan- 
dered long and far through the barren snow-fields, until, at last, a sort 
of weariness came to the girl, and she began to feel exhausted by the 
unusual amount of exercise she had taken. 

They were just approaching a vast bare field, the entrance to which 
was barred by a high gate. As David made a motion to go forward 
and open it, Gladys checked him. 


372 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


she said, in a tone that was listless and low, ^^we have gone 
far enoiigh.^^ 

She did not turn, however, but rested her muff, into which her 
hands were thrust, on the topmost bar of the gate, and dropped her 
chin upon it. The little close bonnet that she wore had also a sort of 
furry trimming, and her face, in the midst of this soft setting, looked 
sweet, fair, dainty as only the pure loveliness of youth and innocence 
can look. 

Her eyes, serene and lucid, were fixed upon the barren fields 
stretched out before her, all their vast sweep of levels and undulations 
covered with a white, untrodden sheet of snow. The sun had sunk 
below the horizon, but a brilliant red glow lingered after it, against 
which the delicate stems of a group of far-off trees were clearly out- 
lined, in a tracery fine as sea-weed. A little above the tallest tree-tops, 
the evening star blazed forth, scintillating in a setting of pale pink, and 
higher still swung the half-grown moon, a silver crescent on an azure 
field. 

Still beyond thought was this winter landscape ; beautiful beyond 
words. The clearness of the frosty air made moon and stars look very 
close, and heaven seemed near to earth. Far as the eye could reach, 
there was not a living creature save this man and woman only. Surely 
there was a spell in this apartness together that wrought upon the soul 
of each. Gladys, as she stood there, absolutely still, and gazed across 
the frozen fields into those deep wells of light that God had set on 
high, felt her soul uplifted and borne aloft to the realms of some better 
world. 

And David Leigh ! He was not looking at the snow-clad fields ; 
he saw neither the bright, cold star nor the distant moon, serene and 
pale. Gladys could wear that nun-like, austere look, when her eyes 
saw only ice and snow and barrenness, but his eyes, imperious, grave, 
and passionate at once, were fixed upon a widely different sight, a 
woman^s fair and lovely face, and the glowing beauty of this vision 
enthralled his soul and thrilled his senses. 

As Gladys rested still and looked away at the star, David, as 
motionless as she, stood and took long draughts of deep disturbing 
pleasure, as he looked at her. A feeling he had been arrogantly trying 
to deny and crush leaped up and mastered him now, and defied him 
to tamper with it any longer. He saw what a weak fool he had been 
to seek to dupe his own heart thus, and he felt that heart bound with 
a leap of mighty triumph, as he gave the battle up, and body and soul 
and mind and strength proclaimed his love for Gladys ! 

Oh, to tell her of it ! To ask her, on his knees, whether it were 
not possible that some day she might let him love her ! If it could 
only be ! But for the spell that silence laid upon him, and but for a 
certain awe which the look of the woman’s face compelled, perhaps he 
would have spoken. If he had, there was but one manner of speech 
that could have come from him then ; but he felt he dared not break 
the stillness of this young girl’s rapt reflection until, by word or sign, 
she should give him leave to speak. The moments sped, and word 
there was none, as he stood and looked at her, with each hand clinched 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


373 


hard in the pockets of his coat, where he had instinctively thrust them 
out of sight in the first great need of self-mastery that had come to him. 
But every moment, as it passed, weakened that sense of self-subjection, 
and his resolution was swiftly giving way, when the sign he had looked 
for came. 

It came, however, in a different guise from any he had looked for, — 
in the guise which, of all others, made the strongest appeal to him. 
He had thought she would turn and speak to him, — perhaps smile at 
the long silence that had fallen between them. But 'she did not speak ; 
she did not move, by so much as a muscle ; but he was very near to her, 
and the* winter twilight was clear and strong, and now it showed him a 
large tear-drop that had welled up in her eyes and overflowed upon her 
cheek. 

Its effect was like magic. It stilled his passion, while it roused his 
tenderness. It showed him plainly the calm sadness of her mood, so 
keenly in contrast to his own fervid agitation.- Yes, she was sad and 
depressed this evening, and what was it he had been about to do ? A 
selfish, cowardly thing ! One instant of returning reason sufficed to 
show him what he had never lost sight of before, — ^how impossible it 
would be to take Gladys out of her world into his, even if he could 
win her ; and even in this moment he knew he could never give up his 
own place and his own people ; that he never thought of. And yet, 
with all this clearly worked out and settled in his mind, he had been 
just on the brink of saying words which would have filled her gentle 
heart with a life-long regret. That one tear he had seen should be the 
last she should have to shed for him, please God ! 

Even as he made this sudden inward resolve to renounce, it came 
over him, as it never had before, what this renunciation was going to 
cost him. Well, let it cost him what it might, it should cost her noth- 
ing; not even one pang of her sweet compassion to ease his aching 
wound ! She had never given him one vestige of right to suppose that 
she could love him, and, thank God, she did not even guess at this 
mighty love for her that burned and throbbed within him. He looked 
at her and saw her still and grave and silent, and she seemed to him 
now as far beyond his reach as the evening star up yonder. 

He was a strong man, schooled to self-control, and his will and 
purpose did not falter. When Gladys turned, at last, and proposed 
they should go back, he walked along beside her, as composed and calm 
as she. That little tear-drop had had no successors, and her face and 
voice were cool and natural as they took their way back along the 
frozen roads. David felt she wanted to be silent, and he made no effort 
to make talk. The voice of his heart would fain have had its way, 
but he had forbidden utterance to that, and any other talk would have 
been a trial to him. He wondered what the source of that tear had 
b^en, but he ventured not to ask, and Gladys, if she had been questioned, 
would not have known how to reply. The strong feeling that had 
shaken David had somehow touched her too, by some mysterious com- 
munication of influence. She had known that he was feeling deeply 
as they had rested at the gate together, — that the hour was fraught 
with some strong feeling for him as well as for her. She felt an im- 


374 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


patient unwillingness to analyze her own emotions, assuring herself 
that it had been only an unaccountable fit of depression that had over- 
taken her, and hurriedly dismissing the subject from her mind. What 
it was that had so strongly moved her companion she ventured not even 
to guess. 

When they reached the house, tea was ready, and Mrs. Acland and 
Con were awaiting them. It was a quiet meal, for after the excite- 
ments of the day were over Con was pretty well worn out, and it was 
not strange that in the little lull that had been allowed to Mrs. Acland 
a mood had come which, however quiet and submissive it inight be, 
could not be fruitful of much talk. 

Soon after supper David lighted a cigar, saying the night was so 
fine that he would smoke it outside, and went off almost at the same 
time that Con’s sleepiness compelled her mother to take her away to 
bed. 

When Mrs. Acland returned, Gladys was seated before the fire, sunk 
in deep reflections, which her friend seemed to have no will to interrupt, 
for she sat down on the lounge beside her without speaking. 

It was Gladys herself who presently broke the silence. 

What do you do with yourself all these long winter evenings, 
when you sit here alone after Con is in bed ?” she said. 

Sometimes I read or sew,” said Mrs. Acland, but more often I 
just sit and think.” 

And can you think about the past — such a rich, bright, beautiful 
past as you have had — without bitterness and tears ? The more I know 
what your life has been, the more I pity your awful loneliness.” 

Mrs. Acland made no answer for a moment. She glanced at Gladys’s 
averted eyes, which still rested on the fire, as if she were hesitating 
about something she had it in her mind to say. Presently she did 
speak. 

I love to have your sympathy,” she said, and it really is some 
comfort to me to know you are sorry for me, but as I sit here by my 
little fire alone, without the pale of human companionship, with the 
keen winter winds howling outside over Arthur’s grave, you do not 
know how often I am sorry for your loneliness and how gratefully I 
lift my heart to God in thankfulness for the blessedness of my lot in 
comparison. My husband is my companion still. His grave, though 
not himself, yet remains a sweet proof to me that my darling once ex- 
isted in the flesh, and shall exist so again, while I feel that his pure 
spirit is with the blessed angels, in a wider, fuller life than ours, and I 
sit and feed my ardent hopes upon the thought of the joys that God 
has prepared for them that love Him. I know God loves me. I spec- 
ulated and wondered about it for a long time, but I know it now, and 
if He loves me He must somewhere, some time, somehow, give back to 
me my dear one. Then again,” she went on, after a short pause, I 
look back, and what a wealth of precious memories I find to comfort 
me ! At times, I don’t deny, I am unhappy, and my sorrow bears 
upon me heavily ; but these times come more rarely now, and do not 
last for long. You don’t know how my faith has quickened since I 
first used to talk to you. I believe you have somehow been a help to 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


375 


it, by revealing to me the strong human needs for which I felt I iinew 
the only answer. It is no mere hope, but an ardent conviction, with 
which I can say now, ^ I believe in the resurrection of the body, and 
the life everlasting.^ 

Oh, Tve been thinking of that,^^ said Gladys. I tried hard to 
think it out, the other day, and I just came against a dead wall. I 
couldif t make anything out of it. Will the body rise as it lay down ? 
Will the old rise old, and the young rise young? If so 

Oh, it will be the hed way,^^ Mrs. Acland cried. Don^t you 
suppose I have thought out all that too, with torturing pain? We 
must content ourselves just to leave it, and I have been able to do that, 
at last ; and surely you may do it too. Nothing but the Christian faith 
gives any hope, and that gives enough, — though you may call it little, 
in view of the mysteries and limitations we are bound to meet, — enough 
to live by in youth, enough to bear maturity and old age, enough to 
die by. Only, to those who truly love God, the little soon grows to 
much. Be sure of that, dear Gladys, as I am.^^ 

Gladys felt herself deeply stirred. 

As I hear you talk,^^ she said, my faith grows stronger. I hope 
indeed it is all true that your husband’s love is kept for you in heaven, 
and that all the sweet and perfect happiness you crave may be given to 
you there. It is something to feel that perhaps it may be so, and even 
I can feel that.” 

Yes, it is something to feel that perhaps it may be so, and it is 
much to believe trustingly that it will be so, but it is all — all comfort, 
all joy, all rest and peace and happiness — to know certainly that it is so. 
But this is a long lesson, and perhaps you do not need to be taught it 
wholly yet. Do not fear, however. It will come to meet your hour 
of need. Oh, Gladys, open the channels of your heart for a greater in- 
flowing of the grace of faith. The immutable certainty of what God 
has decreed concerning future life is altogether beyond our control, but 
what we believe about it we may, to a certain extent, control. Our 
denial of a future life affects the fact not a whit, but what it does 
affect immeasurably is our own destinies. What God has ordained is 
to be, whether we believe in it or not ; but if we believe not, we are cut 
off from the hope of glory ; and faith lies so much in the will. What 
we submit our wills to receive, surely God will grant us, through His 
grace, and you, my dear Gladys, I love to think are set apart for a 
peculiar revelation of His highest mysteries. Be still, and listen for 
His voice, and it will call you away from the world and into a heaven 
which He sometimes permits to have its beginning on earth.” 

Gladys looked into her companion’s face and saw it radiant with 
happiness. A joy not of earth and sense shone from it, and at the 
sight the girl believed and trembled. 

Oh, Mrs. Acland, I feel you are right,” she said. I have given 
up my will. I want nothing at this moment but that God shall take 
me and lead me in the path He would have me go. I used to think 
that you were miserable, and contrast your sad lot with my bright one, 
but I believe now I was wrong. Beside your riches of memory and 
treasures of hope, my life seems filled with emptiness, and I believe 


376 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


that in all that constitutes true happiness you are happier far than I. 
I am more to be pitied than you are/^ 

As indeed she was, by so much more as Never is a sadder word 
than Nevermore. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

It was the evening before the day that Gladys had set for her re- 
turn home. Mammy had gone to a church festival, and Mrs. Acland 
had taken Con to bed, saying as she had left the room that she was 
very tired and might not come down again. She was half ashamed of 
her transparent little ruse to leave David and Gladys alone together, 
but her fond heart had been very heavy these past few days, because 
of the sort of constraint which she had observed between her brother 
and her friend ever since that walk together on the evening of Christ- 
mas day. David would make pretexts to be absent from the house, 
and spent a great deal of time in hunting. Altogether a spirit of in- 
harmoniousness seemed to have settled upon the party, which every one 
observed, but no one alluded to. 

Poor Mrs. Acland ! She saw how things were, but she felt herself 
powerless to alter them. She knew perfectly that David had given the 
whole love of his heart to Gladys, and she would not believe but that 
Gladys, if she saw that this great gift was hers, would accept it. She 
had seen nothing to convince her that her friend had any feeling 
stronger than a warm regard for this dear brother of hers, but she 
could not believe that David could sue hard for any woman’s love 
without obtaining it. 

And David ? What did he feel to-night when he found himself 
thus left alone with Gladys in the seclusion and stillness of that home- 
like fireside ? 

All through these long days of voluntary exile from the bright 
presence in which he was now forced to remain for a while, he had 
hungered and thirsted for a chance like this, and feigned a thousaind 
times what he would do and say if it were really within his grasp, with 
no strong inward motive impelling him to silence. Ah, what he would 
do, in such a case as that, was clear enough, but such a case as that 
could never be ! Over and over, in those long rambles with his gun, 
he had fought the battle out and taught his mind the difficult lesson 
that Gladys was not for him. He had tried to fancy her in his Southern 
home, and had worked the picture out to its last details. He imagined 
the beautiful, gifted creature, indulged as she had always been, and ac- 
customed to change her whole environment whenever the whim might 
seize her, tied down to the narrow life of his native town, deprived of 
all the amusements that had made the pleasure of her life heretofore, 
and feeling that her fate had settled her there, and the idea filled him 
with horror. If his lines in life had been cast in the brilliant places 
where hers lay, then he would have felt himself free to try to win her, 
but now he felt, in the strongest manner, constrained to stifle such a 
feeling at its source. Whether he could overcome this strong, deep 
passionate love that she had roused in him was a question for the 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 377 

coming years to settle ; but he felt that, to the extent of controlling the 
expression of it, he had already overcome. 

He was not afraid, therefore, when he found himself thus left alone 
with her, so near the hour of parting. Indeed, what he felt was a sort 
of exultation that once more the chance was his of being near to 
Gladys, so near that his eyes could read the looks in her eyes, and his 
hand, stretched out, might touch her in the flesh. 

There she sat on the other side of the^ little table that held the 
lamp, restfully leaning back in the deep chair and bending her eyes 
upon a book that she held in one hand.. In his present position her 
face was partly hid from him, so he rose, with deliberation, and moved 
to a cliair on the other side of her. 

^^Are you engrossed in your book?^^ he asked, with a more familiar 
and friendly tone than she had lately been accustomed to hear from him. 
It roused her to no unwonted feeling, though, as she closed the volume 
and looked at him coolly, she felt that it would be impossible to keep 
up a feint of reading. 

I have read it before,^’ she said, so I don’t suppose I can claim 
to be engrossed.” 

David leaned restfully back in his chair, looked straight at her, and 
said, deliberately, — 

Since you’ve put your book away, perhaps you won’t mind helping 
me out with a quotation that I’ve been trying to get the right of, as 
I’ve sat here, these last few minutes, looking at you. See if you know 
it. It runs something like this : ^ I was wondering if the subtle 
measurement of forces will ever be able to measure the force there 
would be in one beautiful woman, who was as noble as she was beauti- 
ful, and who would make a man’s love for her run in one current with 
all the great aims of his life.’ That isn’t exactly it, I know ; but do 
you recognize it?” 

^^Yes,” said Gladys, succeeding in speaking quite steadily, but 
utterly failing in her effort not to blush : ‘‘ it is from ‘ Felix Holt.’ ” 

What did he mean by quoting this passage, that contained the very 
highest ideal of what a woman should be, now at the very time that 
she was smarting under treatment that showed all too plainly that 
he put her on a level with the frivolous worldly women who, of all 
others, presented the strongest possible contrast to this high ideal ? For 
David’s words to her through all these recent days had been the out- 
growth of what he kept constantly before his mind, in order to enforce 
the contrast to himself and his lot in life, — that Gladys was an impor- 
tant figure in the world of fashion and found there her legitimate and 
proper sphere. Surely he could hardly have been aware of how in- 
sistently he drove this idea home to her, in the light talk he permitted 
himself with her, or of the pain he had thereby cost her ! 

A spirit of consciously-controlled self-will had possession of him 
to-night, and, after a moment’s silence, he went on, seeing that Gladys 
did not mean to speak. 

You have one marvellous gift that I wonder if you are aware of,” 
he saidj — a power of assimilating the feelings of those about you. It 
takes a great effort for me to identify you, as you are here with Con- 


378 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


stance and Con and me, with the being who a few nights ago was the 
central figure at Miss MontaveriFs grand ballF^ 

^^Why do you talk to me like that, Mr. Leigh said Gladys, 
drawing herself upright and speaking excitedly, — as if I lived in a 
different world from you, and some great barrier stood between us 

‘^My dear young lady,^^ exclaimed David, ‘^you are innocent 
indeed if you dofft realize that ! If I could show you my world, — my 
real world, where my lot is forever cast, where all my interests, efforts, 
and future purposes centre, — ^you would see it all plain enough. You 
have seen and known me outside of that world, where I am off on a 
holiday, merry-making, and taking my ease, and basking in the sun- 
shine of worldly prosperity and ease and freedom from care, which is 
anything but my natural element. If it was in my power to show you 
my real world, I would do it. I would not spare you one detail. It 
would make you open your eyes. Miss Gladys, and perhaps you would 
pity me ; and yet I am far from feeling that I deserve your pity on 
that score. I believe you would wonder at it, but I wouldn^t change 
places with any man alive. Not that I feel my place in life is very 
desirable or brilliant, — but only that it is my place.^^ 

I wish you could show me what your life at home is like. Can’t 
you tell me about it ?” 

I despair of doing justice to the subject. Distance softens things 
so much ; and perhaps if I were quite candid and explicit you w^ouldn’t 
believe me. I think that quite likely.” 

One thing I know about it,” Gladys said : it has been an indus- 
trious life, and a laborious and patient one. Mrs. Acland has made 
me understand that. At all events, you have used your powers and 
achieved something, and that does put it on a different plane from 
mine.” 

You make me smile when you talk like that,” said David, suiting 
the action to the word. Even if I granted the premises, who could 
expect achievement from such a one as you? Who would have it? 
And as to my achievements, what do they amount to ? In the way of 
reputation, not so much as to extend far beyond my own county, and in 
the way of money, perhaps not much more than would pay Miss Mont- 
averiFs milliners’ bills. I have worked; it would be affectation to 
deny that ; but, if you had a full light upon my circumstances and 
condition, you would be compelled, I imagine, to put me in the ranks 
of the deserving poor.” 

All this bantering talk afforded Gladys no amusement. She did 
not pretend to smile at it, and perhaps her companion saw that it was 
discordant to her mood, for he changed his tone of voice, and went on 
more seriously : 

I wish I could bring before your mind’s eye the picture of my 
room at home, where so many of my quiet hours are spent. I would 
like to let you see how bare and barren and unbeautiful it is, and what 
the hotel is like where I take my meals. I would like to show you, 
also, the people who are my daily associates. I have often wondered 
what you would think of them. I have my own opinions of them, but 
I should like much to have yours. Sometimes I have fancied you 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


379 


would like them, though they do not travel and cultivate their minds : 
their cultivation is of a kind which, for the most part, comes through 
the heart. There are only a few people in the place who know much 
about the great world from experience, and I don^t see that they are 
much the better for it. Modern literature makes its way to us but 
slowly, and we haye no one to tell us exactly what we ought to think 
of it, when it does come. As for our knowledge of art and music and 
poetry, I am a fair specimen of the average rate of appreciation, which, 
it is true, goes to show you that there are those among us who are not 
such absolute Philistines as myself, — if I may be allowed to make 
use of a newly-acquired phrase. All that I have said will convince 
you, I feel sure, that the two worlds you and I live in are very wide 
apart.^^ 

Gladys turned a scrutinizing look upon him. 

Do you think the people of your world inferior to those of my 
world — ^to adopt your classification — in good breeding, and refinement, 
and cultivation in its highest sense she said. 

Certainly not,^^ said David. think them, on the whole, 

superior in those points. My slight experiences in Eastmere and New 
York have exalted my place of residence in my eyes. Oh, I love my 
own. Miss Gladys, I assure you, and in all essential points of true 
refinement 1^11 not yield to you an inch ; but we all judge by the stand- 
ards weVe been brought up by, and I am conscious that if you judged 
my people by your standard they would fall short. I can^t imagine 
you in that little town. It is probable you have been told that you 
would be at home in any society ; but you need not believe it, for there 
is one sort of society, and that of a rather superior sort, in my judgment, 
where you would be completely out of place. I can^t help knowing 
that, though I don^t suppose you could understand how it is.^^ 

He paused, but Gladys made no answer. He had no light by 
which it could be shown him how deep his words had gone. It was 
one more pressure on a wound that rankled. Gladys was pale to-night, 
and her costume of unbroken black heightened the effect of her pallor. 
David wondered to himself what made her look so pale and weary, 
like a tall lily that the ruthless wind had bruised and buffeted until it 
had no power to stand erect. Even as this comparison was passing 
through his mind, she banished it, by rising, with a sudden air of will, 
and drawing herself up to her full height, as she said, — 

I think I will go up to Constance now.^^ 

^‘Will you?^’ said David,, with an impulsiveness he could only 
half subdue. And to-morrow you go back to your own place and 
portion, and we lose you, — Constance and I. New York is a big place 
and Eastmere a little one, but I doubt if New York can estimate its 
gain enough to counterbalance our sense of loss. Miss Montaveril has 
been very good to shed her light upon us for a little while.^^ 

The unexpected softness of his look and tone changed the girPs 
mood instantly. 

Miss Montaveril she said, with a feint of gentle perplexity. 

Who is Miss Montaveril ? I seem to have forgotten 
David felt a dangerous relentingness coming over him at the sound 


380 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


of these playful words of hers, and the consciousness of it served him 
for a warning. He still had his hand on the reins of his will, though 
its hold had relaxed for a moment. 

Who is Miss Montaveril he said, stepping back from her a 
pace or two, and looking straight into her eyes, as he folded his arms 
across his breast, and stood erect, and unsupported, between the girl 
and the door-way toward which she had turned. Let me tell you 
who Miss Montaveril is. If you have forgotten, I assure you I have 
not. She is a great and beautiful lady, high up in the world’s esteem, 
whose gifts entitle her to the homage of men no less than her circum- 
stances decree that she shall have it, whose mission it is to be the focus 
of ball-rooms, the admired of men, the envied of women, and to go 
through life in obedience to the leading of a brilliant destiny. It is in 
this way that I shall know Miss Montaveril in the future, as the dis- 
tant echoes of the great world reverberate faintly in my ears, as I shall 
sit alone on winter and summer evenings and wonder how it was that 
once that queenly lady and myself had seemed to stand together in the 
guise of friends.” 

Gladys, who was very still by .the table, resting her little hands 
upon it, and looking down, seemed to grow even paler than before, as 
the words of this light banter fell upon her ear. 

Why do you talk to me,” she said, her voice altered and shaken 
by some feeling he could not at once comprehend, as if I were fit for 
nothing but to live in ease and wear fine clothes and be fashionable ? 
It may be so, but, if it is, the fault is partly the way I’ve been brought 
up ; and perhaps I might be different if any one believed in me and 
would help me, instead of looking down on me and despising me, as 
you do.” 

For an instant David was struck dumb, and then he burst out 
vehemently : 

Look down upon you ! Despise you ! God knows you are mon- 
strously mistaken. Shall I tell you, for once, the truth about how I 
think of you ? As God is my witness, Gladys, I think of you along 
with my thoughts of the women who have inspired men to the best and 
noblest deeds they have done in all ages, — such women as those for 
whom the knights of old went forth to do battle, with their ladies’ 
colors on their armor and ^ For God and her’ on their lances.” 

Gladys stood completely still, as he ceased to speak, save that her 
bosom heaved with her rapid breathing, and the little hands that rested 
on the table trembled. David saw this, but he dared not venture to 
interpret it: she might be very angry at the fervor he had shown. 
And Gladys, for her part, felt only a longing to escape, for she was 
perilously near to the betrayal of a feeling which now, in an instant, 
she realized. What woman living would not have thrilled to such 
homage as this? Its potent touch upon the folded bud of her womanly 
reticence was enough to burst the flowers into bloom, and it was the 
consciousness of loving that made .her tremble. But with it came a 
feeling even stronger, — the fear of self-betrayal, — and in obedience to 
this feeling she moved from her place and crossed toward the door, 
murmuring as she passed him a half-confused good-night. 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


381 


David felt it was, in truth, the real good-by, and the feeling half 
mastered his stern resolve. As she passed, he caught one little hand in 
his, and bent and kissed it. Then she glided from him, and he was 
alone. 

What had he done ? he asked himself. How far had he betrayed 
the secret he had resolved to guard so vigilantly ? What were the 
words he had uttered, and what interpretation could be put on them ? 
Even as he thrilled to the recollection of that kiss upon her hand, he 
mastered himself for a stern arraignment at his own tribunal. He had 
forbidden himself the joy of self-expression, and his will was still re- 
lentless. Never had his sober-colored, insignificant life seemed more 
unworthy her acceptance than it did at this moment. He had thought 
it possible, from many little signs, that he could perhaps have won for 
himself from that gentle heart some sign of tender feeling, if he could 
have permitted himself to beg, — for there was a power in him of com- 
manding affection which he was not unconscious of, — but he would have 
despised himself if he had allowed himself that license. He could not 
join lots with Gladys. Their destinies were too wide apart. He could 
not imagine himself asking her to make the sacrifice of all that made 
life pleasant to her now for his sake, and not even for her sake could he 
leave the path that duty had marked out for him. 

Far into the night he paced his room restlessly, or lay on his bed 
with haunting, perplexing, tormenting thoughts. Again and again he 
rehearsed within himself the words and looks and actions of that little 
scene with Gladys; but there was one point on which his faithful 
memory played him false. Perhaps it was a treachery of consciousness 
rather than memory, for he had never even been aware of it, when, in 
the preoccupation of his fervent protest, he had called the young girl 
by her sweet familiar name, without any form of prefix. Constance 
always called her Gladys, and it was the name by which she had lived 
in his memory throughout these months of lonely banishment from her 
presence, and the little word had escaped his* lips without his knowledge. 

Not so with Gladys. In spite of the throbbing pride she had felt 
when he uttered those words of fervent tribute to her woman’s nature 
and infiuence, in spite of the sweet rush of tender emotion which came 
at the recollection of that little tender kiss upon her hand, the sound 
of his voice as he had called her Gladys was the sweetest thought that 
haunted her that night, and the last sound that fancy wafted to her ear 
before her happy spirit lost itself in dream-land. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

During the period of tranquil sleep that came to Gladys that night, 
David Leigh scarcely lost an hour’s consciousness. By the time morn- 
ing dawned, his long vigil had weakened his body, as the thought of the 
parting that lay before him had weakened his will. He felt the need 
of physical exercise and the inspiration and vigor it imparts. So he 
rose before the sun, and, taking his gun, let himself quietly out of the 
house, only pausing^o tell the maid who was stirring below that Mrs. 


382 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


Acland was not to keep breakfast back for him, as lie was going to try 
to shoot some game for Miss Montaveril to take away with her, and 
unless he was back sooner he would meet her at the train. 

When the little party of three assembled at the breakfast-table, the 
maid delivered her message, which fell heavily enough upon the hearts 
of two of them, although Con was the only one to utter a protest. 

Uncle Davy ought to thtay at home to thee Daddith,’^ she said, 
indignantly. Daddith don’t want any bird’th. Do you, Daddith ?” 

Oh, yes, dear,” said Gladys, coolly, I should be very glad to 
have some.” 

Mrs. Acland heard the steady response of the controlled young voice, 
but she dared not look at Gladys. A cruel sense of disappointment 
had fallen on her heart, and poor Gladys, who had waked this morning 
with a sense of confused happiness and had come down-stairs in a sort 
of wondering foreboding of some great good that she was getting near 
to, felt this rush of ardent feeling tlirust back upon her heart by a cold, 
relentless hand. She questioned herself angrily now as to what this 
foolish feeling had meant, and, in the light of what had just transpired, 
she plainly saw it to have been without foundation. 

Very soon after breakfast the carriage came that was to take her to 
the train, but David had not arrived. No one mentioned his name as 
Mrs. Acland and Con got in after their guest and drove with her to the 
station. 

There David was awaiting them, his strong, erect figure clad in 
picturesque hunting-clothes that bore the stains of much usage, but 
which, notwithstanding that, seemed to heighten the impressiveness of 
his Southern type of beauty, with its unconventional freedom of aspect. 
He was leaning on his gun and watching for them, when they turned a 
corner and came in sight. Whatever may have been the exj)ression 
that his features had worn hitherto, it changed now to animated greet- 
ing, as he stepped forward and helped the ladies out, taking his sister 
by both hands, and lifting Con out bodily, and then just reaching out 
his roughly-gloved hand for Gladys to touch, as she stepped to the 
ground. She laid her dainty little glove upon it for just a second, and 
then passed him lightly by. He turned arid walked beside her, call- 
ing attention to his well-filled bag of game, which he said he would 
stow away in the baggage-car, to be delivered, with his compliments, to 
Mrs. Montaveril. He had been uncommonly lucky, he said, this 
morning. If Gladys and Constance wondered within themselves at 
this, David did not. He knew from experience that he always shot 
better under strong excitement, and this morning his aim had been 
unerring. 

They paced the platform for a moment or two, preferring not to 
enter the heated little station-room, which looked dark and uninviting. 
Gladys did not suffer her eyes to dwell on David often, but she could 
not help seeing that he was looking better and handsomer perhaps than 
she had ever seen him look before. His face Avas flushed with the 
vigor of early exercise, and a strange animation kindled in his eyes. 
His figure looked its very best in these rather shabby old hunting- 
clothes, which he wore with such a fine freedom. The girl thought for 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


383 

the thousandth time how his looks contrasted with the appearance of 
the other men she knew, but this time she perceived the fact somewhat 
dully, for all the keenness of sensation which ought properly to have 
belonged to this hour of parting with three such friends was,^ somehow, 
strangely lacking. 

Presently the train blew in the distance, and then came bustling 
into the station. *As she clasped the child and covered her face with 
kisses, and then raised Mrs. Actand^s veil to give her one long embrace 
and kiss full of a fervid meaning which neither chose to utter, David 
hurried away to dispose of his game in another car, and came back just 
in time to put her in her seat, and then, with a hurried hand-clasp, he 
was gone, and the train was whizzing on its way. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

The first days of Miss MontaveriPs return to New York were 
characterized by such a spirit of restlessness that she scarcely allowed 
herself a moments time to think. Miss Rosses presence in the house 
was an excuse for unlimited festivities, and they went from one place of 
amusement to another, gave dinners, entertained company, and worked 
hard to kill time. Poor Gladys ! she felt as if these long hours must 
be got through somehow, and she wanted to tell Constance how she 
spent her time, that Constance might tell David Leigh. Sometimes 
she tried to convince herself, in spite of those last words of glowing 
tribute, that David cared for her not at all ; but then would come the 
memory of that low caressing utterance of her name, as if it were a 
habit of the heart to call her so, and she felt that could not be. 

Until the day fixed for David Leigh\s return to the South had come 
and gone, there was an unacknowledged hope in her heart that, against 
her will, she rested and took comfort in ; but now that day was really 
past, and she was compelled to realize that he had passed her by, on his 
way through New York last night. She had been weak enoi^h to 
excuse herself from some engagement and remain at home, and a 
wretched, self-tormenting, mortifying evening she had had, in conse- 
quence. She would yield to such folly no more. There was nothing 
for her but a headlong plunge into the gayeties and frivolities of the 
great world ; and that plunge she would take. Her pride predominated 
over every other feeling and urged her to this course. 

New Year’s morning dawned with a potent significance of its own 
for every heart. How yearningly we, some of us, reach back into the- 
past on New Year’s day and agonize to let the old year go ! That js 
when that dear old year has held for us some supreme good which no 
coming one can bring again. With others, how the reaching is all 
toward the future, with its ardent promise of joy to come ! 

Poor Gladys Montaveril ! Neither case was hers on this New 
Year’s day. There was little behind which it gave her pleasure to turn 
back to, and little of promise ahead. There was only the gaudy, empty, 
insipid present, and after the morning had dragged through all its tedious 
length, and she had made as merry in it as she could, there was nothing 
VoL. XLI. — 25 


384 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


more to do, in the evening, but to dress for a reception to whicli she 
had promis^ to accompany her step-mother and Miss Ross. 

After dinner came an interval in which the ladies had leisure to 
retire to their apartments,- to rest awhile before dressing for the even- 
ing’s festivity. Gladys had no sooner stepped out of her gorgeous 
dress — leaving it a costly heap upon the floor for ^her little maid to 
pick up — and put on a soft loose dressing-gown and thrown herself 
upon a lounge, when, contrary to her expectation, a sort of heavy 
languor came oyer her, which precluded active thought and made a 
really restful nap seem possible. After a few moments’ stillness there, 
she fell into a profound sleep. 

She had lain in this unconscious state a long time, when Molly 
entered the room, and, perceiving that her young lady was having a 
refreshing sleep, began to tip about very softly, making things ready 
in the dressing-room, and laying out an exquisite costume which was 
destined for this occasion. Wlien all was in- readiness, Molly glanced 
anxiously at the clock on the mantel, and saw that she would have to 
wake her mistress. She felt very reluctant to do so, and stood a 
moment beside the lounge on which the lithe loveliness of the sleeping 
girl’s long body was lying, and looked down with a sort of timid 
tenderness at the fair face, serene and happy in its tranquil sleep. 
When at last the little maid reluctantly bent over and called her mis- 
tress’s name, Gladys opened her eyes with a sweet, bright smile, that 
was followed, the next instant, by a swift contraction of pain. 

^^Oh, Molly,” she said, in a trembling voice, turning away and 
covering her face with her hands, what made you wake me ? I was 
having such a lovely dream.” 

I am sorry, miss,” said Molly, in a tone of soft contrition. I 
wish you could have slept on ; but it is time for you to dress. I have 
laid out your dress and got everything ready, and I was afraid you 
would be late.” 

Gladys made no answer, by word or sign. Her face was still 
turned away, and her hands concealed it from view. She was so still 
that Molly thought she must have fallen asleep again, and was won- 
dering whether it would do to let her sleep on, when Gladys turned 
and rose to her feet, with a suddenly altered air. 

Come, Molly,” she said, crossing toward her dressing-room, I 
don’t want to be late. You were quite right to rouse me.” 

A little later, as she sat before the mirror, as Molly combed up the 
light masses of her abundant soft brown hair and fastened it in a 
shining coil at the top of the dainty head, the little maid, whose adora- 
tion for her young mistress made her watchful of every sign, observed 
the fact that her young lady’s thoughts had wandered far away from 
the contemplation of her own beauty, and prompted the conviction that 
they must be back in the bright realms of dream-land, where something 
so sweet and joy-giving must have come to her that the memory of it 
now in the barrenness of waking thought was fraught with so much 
pain that it caused a sadness in the' face she loved so much to look 
upon, that cut the girl’s kind heart. 

Molly’s affectionate insight had already revealed to her that, ever 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


385 


since her mistress’s return from that trip on which she had not been 
allowed to accompany her, something had been wrong, and she even 
realized the fact that now, as she was arranging the sumptuous robe 
about the beautiful form she loved so humbly, her mistress was strug- 
gling hard against a tendency to tears. Gladys had turned away from 
the glass and passively resigned herself to the little maid’s skilful 
hands, but when the toilet was completed, and Molly tilted the long 
glass and begged her young lady to look, Gladys turned slowly and 
confronted the reflection before her. 

Every beautiful woman is a critical judge of her own looks, and 
Gladys saw at a glance that this new dress became her well and that 
she had never looked better to her own eyes. The costume was a long, 
close-fitting gown of thick white silk, that fell in splendid folds that 
swept away into a mass of glowing richness, behind her, where the edge 
of the heavy train was defined against the carpet by a line of soft 
white lace. The body was cut square, both back and front, and bor- 
dered by a trimming of white lace and gold, and the short sleeves, with 
their high pufis and gold slashings, were edged with the same rich 
bordering around the lovely arms. A delicately wrought necklace of 
pearls and gold, light almost as lace-work, clasped her round throat, 
and Gladys’s pure-eyed nun-like face looked out austerely over all this 
splendor. 

The young girl could not fail to see how beautiful she looked, but 
the sight was one that smote her with a swift sharp pang. She cared 
less than nothing for it now. It gave her only pain. There was one 
in whose eyes she would have liked to look her best and fairest, and the 
thought that he cared nothing for it, that there was no likelihood of her 
seeing him now, to-night, or ever again, was too much. The tears 
sprang to her eyes, and she sank back into a chair, helpless to struggle 
longer. 4 

Oh, Molly,” she murmured, her voice faltering and her lips trem- 
bling, while the big tears trickled dowji her cheeks, can’t go ! I 
couldn’t stand it this evening ! I am in trouble, and I should break 
down and let people see it. You must go to Mrs. Montaveril and tell 
her I don’t feel well, and am going to stay at home. And, Molly, don’t 
let them come in here. Tell Miss Minnie I send my love to her and 
hope she’ll have a pleasant time ; but tell them both I want not to be 
disturbed. Run along, good little Molly,” she added, seeing that the 
girl looked loath to leave her. Never mind about me. Don’t trouble 
your kind heart. It’s nothing very much, and you mustn’t say a word 
about my even seeming sad. I don’t want any one to know it. It will 
pass away, I suppose. It is a thing hundreds of people bear patiently 
every day, and may enter even your simple little life. I am very weak 
and cowardly to-night. To-morrow I’ll be better.” 

Gently checking the little maid’s protestations of devotion, she sent 
her off, telling her to stay and help the other ladies. She heard them 
presently, talking brightly as they passed her room, and soon after the 
carriage that took them away had rumbled off in the distance. 

Too preoccupied to think of undressing, Gladys sat in the place 
V here Molly had left her, and fell into deep thought. What was it 


386 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


that had weakened her so and made the struggle so impossible to-night ? 
It was that dream, tliat sweet delusive dream, that summoned up the 
ready tears at each recurring memory and made her actual life seem so 
desolate, in contrast with the baseless fabric of that vision. The future 
was so rayless, the present so utterly dreary, and even the past held no 
memories of joy on which, Jike Constance, she could feed her hungry 
heart and say that cherished line, — 

‘ If my bark sink, 'tis to another sea.’ 

Ah, Constance was right ! she knew it now : hers was the happier 
lot. How willing she felt now, in her keenly awakened consciousness, 
to pay for such a joy with any degree of future pain ! She rose to her 
feet, unable to bear these thoughts in silence any longer, and, straining 
her jewelled hands together until they pained her, she lifted her heart 
to God in a dumb cry for strength. 

I donft want you, Molly,^^ she called out to the little maid, who 
had just opened the door. will undress myself, and I want to be 
quiet now.^^ 

William just brought up this card, miss,^^ said Mqlly, advancing 
with it timidly. He wants to know if you can see the gentleman.^^ 

No,^^ said Gladys, hastily. You ought to have told William I 
was 

But while speaking she had glanced mechanically at the card, and 
read in familiar, pencilled characters the name of David Leigh. 

The sentence was stopped short on her lips, and instantaneously her 
aspect changed. A rich glow of color mounted to her face, the hand 
that had reached out for the card began to tremble, and she looked at 
Molly as if bewildered. 

The little maid, however, gave no sign, but turned off to reach 
some misplaced article from the floor, as if she were bent upon nothing 
whatever but straightening the room. 

The gentleman is waiting, miss,^^ said Molly, still with averted 
head. Shall I tell William you wish to be excused 

^^No, Molly said Gladys, too absorbed to notice the twinkle in the 
little creatoress eye. Tell William to say I will be down.^s 

As Molly left the room, Gladys crossed to the mirror and looked 
at herself. Every trace of languor had vanished, and she felt animated 
by a sudden nervous strength. The idea that possessed her most strongly 
was that she must guard herself well against betrayal. It was uncer- 
tain yet what David Leigh had come for. It might be simply to be- 
guile the time of an unexpected detention in New York. It might be 
he wished to see her, to confer about some plan for liis sister or Con. 

But then, on the other hand, it might be Oh, she would not 

think of that ! Her face flushed deeper, and as she gazed now on the 
radiant reflection that the mirror gave back, she felt a conscious joy to 
find herself so fair. 

David Leigh was.standing in the centre of the room, mechanically 
turning over some books that lay on the table, when his eager ears 
grew conscious of a distant foot-fall, and he glanced through the open 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


387 


door-way to where Gladys, tall and beautiful, came stepping softly, 
regal and fair as some dream-queen, in her shimmering draperies that 
trailed after her in a heavy, lustrous mass. 

He stood completely still and looked at her, coming each second 
nearer and nearer to the arms that longed so to clasp her close, the lips 
that yearned so to kiss her, the heart that thirsted to outpour its torrent 
of love before her and let her trample on it or take it, as she would. 
His pulses throbbed so with the bounding blood that coursed like fire 
through his veins that a sudden confusion seized his faculties, and he 
forgot to advance to meet her, forgot that he was paying a visit and 
there were forms to be gone through with, and stood absolutely motion- 
less until she came and stood beside him, holding out her lovely hand 
in greeting. 

As he touched that hand and heard those quiet words of welcome, 
he remembered himself enough to answer her, but not enough to weigh 
the words he said, or even to know quite what they were. Perhaps no 
man as passionately moved as he was now was ever either eloquent or 
quite coherent. 

Constance sent me,’^' he said, hurriedly. Constance urged me 
to corue.^^ 

Ah, ftwas as she had suspected, then ! He came about some plan 
of Constance^s, and not of his own will. The knowledge made her 
calmer yet. By and by she would have time enough for suffering and 
disappointment, .but now pride was stronger than pain. 

‘^Constance sent you?^^ she said, her voice clear and sweet and 
steady. I fancied it might be so, when your card was brought up to 
me. What can I do for Mrs. Acland ? She knows how willing I am 
to be of any service to her. 

Those silvery notes, those calm words, that quiet air, recalled him 
to full consciousness of where he was, why he had come, and how use- 
less it all was. Yes, it was utterly useless, that eager, restless, hoping, 
fearing journey. They were still standing, but he was too unaware 
of his body to think of a change of posture, as he hurriedly began to 
speak, looking away from Gladys for fear her eyes would check him. 

You misunderstand me,^^ he said. Constance urged me to come, 
but it was to speak for myself, not her. Her loving intuition revealed 
to her that I was unhappy, and in some way she divined the reason. 
For a long time she could not speak to me, any more than I could 
speak to her. You know what her thoughts are about these things. 
She felt she could not lay so much as the touch of a word upon a thing 
so sacred. For days this silence between us' lasted, but yesterday, the 
day I was to leave for home, she made up her mind to speak. She 
told me what she suspected, and I told her all. Perhaps you know 
her well enough, in her unlikeness to other people, not to be much 
surprised at what she said. Where I saw only hopelessness, she, with 
that unworldly vision of hers, saw hope. She convinced me — I was 
all too willing to be convinced ! — that perhaps another woman might 
be capable of such a love as hers, that overcomes circumstances and 
ignores all considerations of worldly advantage and makes them all 
subservient to love. But it is love alone that can work this spell, and 


388 


HONORED IN THE BREACH. 


at that thought I trembled. T dared not believe in the existenee of 
such a love for me. There is nothing in me to inspire it. I do not 
believe in it; and yet I am here, Gladys, to ask if it can be, — to tell 
you that my future is irrevocably bound up with my own people, 
whom I love and honor and wish to serve above all others, and among 
wdiom, in circumstances I have described to you, my lot in life is fixedly 
cast. I have come to ask you to share that life, — to go away and live 
with me in that little, isolated Southern town, with no other reward for 
the sacrifice than such as love can offer. Believe me, I humbly feel 
my unworthiness to love you, or to ask any sacrifice from you, but I 
know my love for you is strong and high and tender beyond the power 
of words to tell, and Constance succeeded in imparting to me some of 
her ardent hopefulness. She thought it might be possible for me to 
win your love; but the thought was too presumptuous. She was 
wrong.” 

Gladys had dropped into a chair, and was seated with her face 
averted ; but she need not have feared. He dared not yet to look 
at her, for fear her look might compel him to be silent. Now, how- 
ever, as he paused, the lovely figure rose and stood erect, the controlled 
emotion of the last moments mastering her, and flooding l]^er face 
with a beautiful glow, as her eyes shone with the light of a strong in- 
dignation. 

Constance at least did me justice,” she said, as David, for the first 

time, turned and looked at her, while you, Mr. Leigh ” She had 

begun in a brave, collected voice, but suddenly it broke and the tears 
welled up in her eyes. Agitated, trembling, bewildered, David took a 
step toward her and caught her hands in his. 

I have wounded you,” he said ; and yet, oh, Gladys, what do 
you mean by looking at me so ? Are you letting me have hope that 
some day you may love me? Are you going to tell me that? Tell 
me quickly, if it is so. Forgive me my offence, and grant me leave to 
make amends.” 

She let him hold- her hands and draw her closer, while he bent 
above her and looked at her with eyes that seemed to drink her very 
soul. 

I can forgive you,” she murmured, her voice trembling and her 
breath coming fast. You have done me a great injustice. You have 
believed in me too little. But I can forgive you anything, because I 
do love you.” 

She closed her eyes beneath his ardent gaze. There was no need 
of vision now, as she felt herself enfolded by his arms and drawn close 
against his heart. For a little space they stood in perfect stillness ; 
there was not even a rustle of the silken draperies under which he felt 
the bounding of her palpitating heart. Presently they drew a little 
apart, and Gladys opened her eyes and gazed into the steadfast depths 
of those her lover bent above her, and then their faces neared each other, 
and they kissed, — a solemn kiss that was to each the seal of an eternal 
love. 

At the same moment of time, far away across the frozen fields and 
barren forest-lands, a woman in the mournful garb of widowhood knelt 


HONORED IN THE BREACH 


389 


by an open window, praying for these two happy souls, whose perfected 
bliss was her answered prayer. Perhaps some unseen messenger con- 
veyed to her the knowledge of that moment^s sweet fruition for the 
lovers, for she dropped her face in her hands and murmured, — 

My God, I thank thee 

But no ! With a voice that chokes and trembles, she finishes her 
prayer, — 

that life is short.^^ 

Her body heaves with her convulsive sobbing ; the keen night wind 
cuts and stings her face, as she strains her eyes to make out, in the silent 
moonlight, the sacred spot where the tall white cross has cast its shadow 
on the snow. She sees it dimly through her blinding tears, and feels 
unconscious, in that moment, of all else except that Arthur lived and 
loved her once and she has lost him ! 

Presently her sobs subside, and there follows a great calm. A mo- 
ment more she bends in humble prayer, and then she lifts her head 
from its low posture and turns her face up to the splendid stars. 

Serene and far they shine, sunk in calm depths of still blue ether, 
each in its appointed place, answering some purpose in God’s universe; 
and as Constance gazes on that starry sky, a sublime strength seems to 
come to her, lifting her soul on wings of hope and bearing her in spirit 
up to where, beyond those farthest stars, rolls the eternal current of that 
other sea.” 


THE END, 


390 


METEMPSYCHOSIS, 


METEMPSYCHOSIS. 

O NE instant, loved one, do not move ! That pose, — 
What memory of long ages gone doth stir 
And tremble near my consciousness ? So close, — 

It yet eludes the grasp that would deter ! 

Surely, beloved, we have once before 

Lived through this moment in some other state : 

The spell is on me, — stir not, — more and more 
I read the past, — the veil is lifting, — wait ! 

I see a forest dim, — but thou wert there ; 

The young world, half chaotic, was just born ; 

And keen with the fresh life of that new air 
I sought thee through the star-enchanted morn. 

I know not what our forms, nor whether form 
Or animate life we had ; I only know 
I yearned unrestingly, and calm noi: storm. 

Nor strange scenes with unusual light aglow. 

Nor yet the first rare bird-songs ever sung. 

One moment stirred or stilled my thoughts from thee : 
Mayhap the veriest atom, thrilled and strung 
To such sweet tenor, seeks affinity. 

In what deep Aryan woodland, waiting long 
My passionate summons, didst thou tarry, love ? 

And with what tender fibres were our strong 
Exultant hopes forever interwove ? 

And then we seemed for ages separate ; 

But once again I found you, — yes,— be sure ; 

I see the tropic fern, the fig, the date. 

And in your twilight hair are corals pure ; 

We wandered hand in hand by Southern seas. 

Happy and all unthoughtful of the day. 

Content to love, content to watch the breeze 
Make fragrant ripples on our white-reefed bay. 

Ah, love, you stir : the spell is broke ! But I, — 

What care I for our primal selves, when now 
I have the great calm joy to sit near by 
And rest my gaze upon your radiant brow ! 

If all that has been never were, just this — 

To blend our souls in this dear present hour. 

To hear you speak, to breathe my reverent kiss — 

Were surely consummation’s perfect flower. 

Charles Henry Phelps. 


FROM MY LETTER-BOX. 


391 


FROM MY LETTER-BOX. 

E very author who has enjoyed a few hours of popularity has seen 
his letter-box overflow with letters, anonymous or signed, which 
the publication of his books has called forth. 

These literary effusions, like the articles and reviews in newspapers, 
are from critics of all shades, fair and unfair, kind and unkind, stupid 
and intelligent. 

The author may refuse to take note of, or even resolve not to hear, 
what his critics say, but the chorus breaks out afresh on the appearance 
of each new work he gives to the world, and happy is he who can 
listen unmoved, and profit by it or laugh over it, as the case may de- 
mand. Great, high-strung natures there have been, like George Eliot, 
whose fine ears could not endure the bewildering trumpeting, — exqui- 
site porcelain vases, that could scarce stand handling, much less kicks. 
Thomas Carlyle, himself a philosopher, once called the Saturday Re- 
view critics dirty puppies.^^ 

He who goes out into the public streets must expect a splash of 
mud now and then, and well for him if his broadcloth is not too fine : 
tlie spot dries, and — one fillip — it is gone. 

Criticism,’^ says D’Alemberg, should be received, if fair and 
kind, with deference and thanks; if fair but unkind, with deference 
and no thanks ; if unfair and unkind, with silence and contempt.^^ 

So much for criticism, public or private : that’s how I take it. 
Undoubtedly the most entertaining critics are the private ones, — I 
mean if you be of a philosophic turn of mind. The contents of your 
crammed letter-box will afford you many an hour’s amusement. Your 
unknown correspondents have all sat down to write to you in grave 
earnest, that is the first thing which strikes you, and whatever your 
after-sentiments may be, the first is a feeling of gratification at having 
called forth the interest of them all. One corrects misstatements, an- 
other calls your attention to a printer’s error, another points out some- 
thing that you have omitted and suggests a subject for your next book. 
One addresses you as most noble and illustrious,” and asks for your 
autograph ; the next (probably a social failure) puts a damper on your 
vanity with four pages of gross insults, — probably his way of avenging 
himself on Fate for the bad treatment he has received at her hands. 
Another But extracts from some of the epistles that my own publi- 

cations have called forth will best illustrate the subject, and I cannot do 
better than open my desk at once. So far from despising these letters, 
T keep most of them carefully and use them as wholesome physic, and 
occasionally take a dose of flattery or abuse, according as my state of 
depression or self-complacency may seem to require. 

A tout seigneur tout honnear. I will begin by introducing the 
anonymous fanatic 

Sir, — I have read your ^ John Bull and his Island.’ It is a pack 
of lies from beginning to end. Joanna Southcott was a true prophet- 


392 


FROM MY LETTER-BOX. 


ess, and no other than tlie woman of the desert spoken of by St. John 
in the Book of Kevelations. Most of her prophecies have been ful- 
filled already, and the rest will be fulfilled all in God^s good time. 
Beware of bringing down the anger of the Almighty on the sins of 
jeering and lying. Rest assured that you will cut a very small figure 
on the day of her resurrection.’^ 

Much in the same vein is the correspondent, wholly destitute of 
humor, who supplies the following : “ You have sneered at all that we 
hold most sacred. We English are the chosen people of God, the lost 
tribes of Israel. 1 am only ashamed that a respectable English pub- 
lisher should have been found ready to lend himself to the publication 
of such wickedness. I have no doubt you are preparing another book. 
Be careful what you say this time.” 

The next letter I find in the heap is written on the vilest paper. 
The ink is pale and rusty, the pen scratchy. In his furious hurry to 
relieve himself of his venom, the writer has caught his pen in the 
paper and covered it with a shower of little blots. For some time he 
hesitated as to wdiether he would post it ; from its crumpled state it is 
even plain that he was on the point of throwing it on the fire, but pas- 
sion got the better of reason, and the production found its way into my 
letter-box : 

Sir, — I have read your last. I should not have imagined that it 
was possible to write anything more stupid than ^ John Bull et son He.’ 
You have disappointed me: you have surpassed yourself. I sincerely 
hope you are emptied now. When I see all the French and English 
papers devoting columns of praise to your trash, I cannot help asking 
myself, ^ What is the world coming to ?’ There are hundreds of French- 
men residing in England who could have written much better books on 
the same subject, if the idea had only occurred to them.” 

The letter is in French, and the postmark London. Here there can 
be no mistake about the social position of the writer, — a Frenchman 
vegetating in London. 

Another amiable compatriot is the one who sent me the following : 

It is said that your books bring you a hundred thousand francs a 
year. If such is the case, let me tell you that it is simply shameful 
that you should keep your professorship at St. Paul’s, instead of resign- 
ing it and making room for one of the many Frenclimen in London 
who are as well fitted for the post as you are.” 

Strange that I should have resigned that professorship the very day 
I received this letter ! Perhaps my worthy correspondent has boasted 
of bringing about my resignation. It was not /i6, however, who re- 
placed me. 

This letter is not only from a compatriot, but from a confrere. The 
writing is evidently disguised, and it would not surprise me to learn 
that it had come from a former friend. Why should he write thus ? 
It would be hard to say. But it is a curious fact that individuals who 
have risen rapidly into any desirable position have always been the ob- 
ject of such attentions as this from old associates. These people are 
persuaded that their successful friend wants to turn his back on them, 
but in reality it is they who have changed. ' They were his warmly 


FROM MY LETTER-BOX. 


393 


appreciative audience when he had no public one; but let the public 
one sound his praises at all loudly, and they are immediately seized with 
a desire to rush out into the highways and proclaim that he is only 
plain Jack,’^ and not the John^^ that his admirers think him, — that 
other ^^Johil^^ whom Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes was too modest to 
mention. 

But let us return to the letter-box. 

A Briton, who was not satisfied with my portraits of the John Bull 
family, wrote from London, — 

Your books on England are extremely clever and amusing, but 
they are as full of blunders as eggs are of meat.^^ 

Now, my dear friend, with your experience of London eggs, you 
could not pay me a more witty or graceful compliment. 

One day I found in my letter-box an epistle the envelope of which 
was addressed to John Bull, Esq., Cornhill, London.^^ A post-office 
wag had written on the back, in blue pencil, Not known : try Max 
O^Bell.^^ 

An anonymous wit supplied the following to my collection : 

You say that Englishmen have not the bump of amativeness, and 
that you never saw them pay to their wives those little attentions that 
are known in France b;^ the name of mavivaudage and .in England by 
that of ^ spooning.’ But, my dear sir, does it not strike you that per- 
haps those provoking Britons waited until you had left their houses to 
proceed to business ?” 

This one has” me, I will readily admit ; but I think I have” the 
lady correspondent who corrects a misstatement in John Bull and his 
Island :” 

Sir, — You say in your book that a Society for the Protection of 
Women has not yet been formed in London. Allow me to say that 
you are mistaken. Such a society has been in existence for many years, 
and its seat is at 85, Strand.” 

So, after all, there existed in London a Society for the Protection 
of Women. Well, I was glad to hear it. And it has existed for years. 
Has it, indeed? You may easily imagine how little surprised I was 
the other day when, opening my English paper, I read that a magistrate 
in London had not hesitated to impose a fine of ten shillings upon a 
brute of a husband who had nearly smashed his wife’s skull v/ith a 
pair of tongs. I congratulate the Society for the Protection of Women 
which can inspire the magistrates of the big city with such terror. 
After so severe an example, few husbands will dare to open tlieir 
wives’ skulls for the mere purpose of ascertaining what there is inside 
of them. I heartily tender my most humble apologies to the Society 
for the Protection of Women. 

Here is a batch of three. I hesitate to which to give the palm. 
Each is a rich illustration of the sang-froid and sans-gtne to be found 
in a certain type of Anglo-Saxon person all over the world. The first 
bears the postmark of a little town in Texas : 

My dear Sir, — I have an album containing the photographs of 
many illustrious men. I should much like to add yours to the number. 
If you will send it to me, I will send you mine.” 


394 


FROM MV LETTER-BOX. 


Was not the offer tempting? I resisted it, however. The next 
illustrates the coolness of John BulFs head, — that coolness which, in 
England, goes by the name of cheek. Judge for yourself : 

‘^Dear Sir, — I am a great admirer of your books, and I should 
consider it a great favor if you would be kind enough to send me a 
copy of each of them, with your autograph. Hoping I am not pre- 
suming too much, I am, yours truly, G. 

No other enclosure ! Well, well, my dear kind correspondent, I 
really cannot help thinking that it is presuming a little too much, and 
I must decline to give you a helping hand in putting into execution the 
plan you have discovered for getting up a library on the cheap. 

To my mind, the third beats the preceding two into fits. Here it 
is in its delicious simplicity : 

I have heard that you were a most obliging man, and therefore 
I trust you will pardon the liberty I take. 1 should be grateful if, 
at your convenience, you would kindly write out for me ; (1) the ety- 
mology of the following French words, aube^jour^ soir, and veillee; (2) 
• the French equivalents for the two following English sentences, 
am at my wite’ end,^ and Ho turn over a new leaf;^ (3) biograph- 
ical sketches of Alphonse Daudet, Octave Feuillet, Emile Zola, and 
Georges Ohnet. With apologies for encroaching upon your valuable 
time, I am, Etc.^^ 

There was not even a stamped envelope accompanying this modest 
request. After reading it again, I felt much inclined to break through 
my rule of never answering such unknown correspondents. The glib 
request seemed to come from an old offender; I was certainly not the 
first who had been called upon to supplement his school education in 
this fashion. It was a great temptation to suggest one or two new 
leaves’^ he might turn over with advantage, and keep turned. 

I pass over several kinds of correspondents : those who simply ask 
for autographs or a sensible piece of information ; those who thank 
you for the pleasure derived from the perusal of your books,^’ and 
hope ^^you may long be spared to show up the weaknesses of John 
Bull the Frenchman residing in England who sends a request for 
cash, saying that it is a duty for compatriots on a foreign shore to 
help one another, and that the loan of a few pounds would be particu- 
larly acceptable just now.^^ 

Now place aux dames. 

They are certainly the most piquant of my correspondents, and I 
get a good deal of amusement in speculating on their age, state, temper, 
station in life, etc. Here are a few samples of this kind of corre- 
spondence. 

An anxious mother writes, — 

I have eight daughters. What would you advise jne to do with 

them 

Excuse me, dear ^nadarn, I am a married man, and I can only ad- 
vise you to apply elsewhere for relief. But how old are your daughters ? 
If they are still in pinafores, there is the system of plain diet and early 
hours pursued with success, I believe, by our old nursery acquaintance 
who lived in a shoe. But perhaps my first surmise was the correct 


FROM MY LETTER-BOX. 


395 


one, and, having many marriageable daughters, you are at a loss to 
know why men are not besieging your house for wives. Now, dear 
madam, let me ask you one or two questions. Have you judiciously 
trained your eight daughters ? Have you been careful to have them 
taught all the ologies, the higher branches of science, and a smattering 
of half a dozen accomplishments ? Have you carefully shielded their 
sensitive natures from all knowledge of the degrading trivialities of 
housekeeping? Have you duly inculcated in them a contempt for 
anything but the best style of dress, carriages, furniture, etc., and a 
lady-like indifference to the cost of the necessaries o^ life? You have 
done all this? AVell, poor madam, I am afraid I cannot do anything 
for you. 

Mrs. John Bulk^ writes the following indictment against her hus- 
band : 

I feel very grateful to you for the admirable way in which you 
have shown up the true position of woman in our country. Every 
Englishwoman ought to read your book ^Les Filles de John Bull.^ 
My husband was very averse to my doing so, but I read it all the same, 
and am very glad that I did. At last we have some one amon^ us with 
wit to perceive that the life which a woman leads with the ordinary 
sherry-drinking, cigar-smoking English husband is little better than 
that of an Eastern slave. Take my own case, which is that of thou- 
sands in our land. I belong to my lord and master body and soul ; 
the duties of a housekeeper, upper nurse, and governess are required of 
me ; I am expected to be always at home and at my husband^s beck and 
call. It is true that he feeds me, and that for his own glorification he 
provides me with handsome clothing. It is also true that he does not 
beat me. For this I ought, of course, to be properly grateful ; but I 
often think of what you say on the wife and servant question, and 
wonder how many of us would like to share the cook^s privilege of 
being able to give warning io leave. We have heard enough about the 
duty of training girls to be good wives and mothers. It is high time 
now that we should hear something about training boys to be decent hus- 
bands and tolerable fathers. Under the present system of education, 
they are taught from their cradle to despise girls as their inferiors, and 
the result is the semi-slavery of English wives which you have so ably 
depicted. 

No doubt, my dear Mrs. John Bull, your husband thinks you such 
an ornament to his house that he cannot bear to know you outside it. 
Looked at properly, it may be taken as a delicate compliment. As for 
his expecting you to wear a smiling face, we must own that when a 
fellow comes home from a public dinner or a jolly evening at his club 
it is devilish hard upon him to find his wife with a long face, suffering 
from a fit of the blues. 

A lady signing herself ^^A Neglected Wife’^ pours out her little 
troubles to me in a long letter, complaining that she has to -spend 
nearly all her evenings alone while her husband is dining, drinking, 
and card-playing at his club, and concludes by saying, I had the rep- 
utation of being a good-tempered girl, but the life I have to lead now 
would sour an angel.^^ This poor little woman had better beware how 


396 


FROM MY LETTER-BOX. 


she shows sourness at her husband^s coming home at one o’clock in the 
morning, or he will soon make the discovery that he comes at one 
o’clock because she is sour. Men have powerful reasoning minds. 

The next letter is a model of neatness and precision. The writing 
is bold and angular; so is the style. There is a perfume of the 
woman’s-righter about the missive, which runs thus : 

Monsieur,— You say that ^ when men do not marry it is for want 
of an inclination,’ but that ^ when women do not marry it is for want 
of an invitation.’ Allow me to tell you that you have indulged in wit 
at the expense of truth : you are entirely mistaken as to a 'woman’s 
reason. I myself have had several offers, but, thanks be, the ample 
means left me by careful parents have placed me above the necessity of 
getting a living in the mill of matrimony. Man is a beast, a sensual 
and selfish creature,, utterly incapable of understanding the sensitive, 
refined soul of a true woman, and I am happy to say that I am one of 
the many who mean to do without his companionship.” 

I imagine that few bachelors will regret to hear of this lady’s de- 
termination. 

A lively daughter of John Bull writes, — 

Several young friends and myself have been speculating as to what 
you are like, whether you are young or old, plain or good-looking, tall 
or short, married or single. We scarcely dare hope that you will satisfy 
our curiosity by replying to this letter, but if you have a photograph 
of yourself to spare, it would settle our minds greatly.” 

I hardly see how my photograph would tell whether I am tall or 
short, married or single, and, reflecting that photographs are apt to be 
faithful reproductions of one’s features, I prefer not to send mine to 
these young ladies, who have perhaps enshrined me in their imagination 
as an Adonis. 

A Frenchman from Paris suggests a little business : 

Monsieur and dear Confrere, — I am a man of most fertile imagi- 
nation. I have scores of plots which, worked by you in your inimitable 
style, would produce no end of absorbing novels. There is a fortune 
for us both if you will only join me. Please think it over seriously, 
and let me know your decision at your earliest convenience.” 

Declined with thanks. 

One of the English publishers who applied to me for the right of 
issuing an English edition of John Bull et son He” made me the 
followipg handsome offer : 

Sir, — I believe that an English translation of the book you have 
just published in France would be likely to have a sale in England. 
I am ready to give you £16 for the right of translation. An early 
answer will oblige.” 

Declined without thanks. 

But, oh, if I could only have had such a brilliant offer from an 
American publisher! From this quarter I never had any: they took 
French leave. I went so far as to write to one of the publishers who 
did me the honor of introducing me to the American public that I had 
heard he had published an edition of my book, and suggested the send- 
ing of a little check by way of acknowledgment. As an inducement 


FROM MY LETTER-BOX. 


397 


to him to comply with my request, I promised not to spend the money, 
not even to cash the check. I had determined that, if ever I got it, it 
should go into my scrap-book of literary curiosities ; but the check 
never came. I will tell you, however, how I was lucky enough to make 
five dollars by the transaction : I had bet twenty-five francs with a 
friend that the check would never come. 

A lady, signing A niece of Uncle Sam,^^ wrote to me the following 
note from Boston ; 

have just read your second book. If I could not write better 
English than that, I would never think of sending my manuscript to a 
publisher.’^ 

You are quite right to abuse such English, my dear lady, but you 
have sent your letter to the wrong man ; you should have addressed it 
rather to the publisher who, without a by your leave or with your leave, 
one night set thirty scribblers, all more or less ignorant of French, 
hacking away at my prose, with instructions to have the book done by 
next morning. It was done, done brown, as you have seen, much to 
the consternation of yours truly, I can assure you. 

Here is an appeal to use my influence on behalf of the oppressed : 

Dear Sir, — There is an enormous sum of money in the English 
Court of Chancery to which I am entitled. I am constantly writing 
to the judges of that court to claim my property, but can obtain no 
answer to any of .my letters; It is very hard to be living in poverty 
and want and to know that I have riches belonging to me which I 
cannot handle. I appeal to you to use your influence to get my right- 
ful property. I hope you will do what you can for me.^^ 

A request to send my answer to Mrs. Dash, Insane Hospital, 
Indianapolis, threw much light on the strange epistle, and I thought it 
wise, on the whole, not to trouble the judges of the Chancery Court. 

Among the letters which have given me most pleasure is one signed 
with a name well known in diplomatic circles. From it I extract the 
following remark : 

What pleases me about your books on England is that one has 
only to scrape away the sprinkling of sarcasm on the surface in order to 
come upon a true appreciation of John BulFs solid qualities, and he 
must be a very dull fellow the Englishman who does not laugh with 
you over his little weaknesses and eccentricities.^^ 

Yes, thanks be, it is not only amusement that an author gets from 
his stranger correspondents. Among his sweetest moments are those 
spent in the reading of letters from friends whose faces he has never 
seen and may never see. They speak of the pleasure, and sometimes 
the profit, their writers have had in reading him, and they are glowing 
with encouragement, thanks, and often kind and valuable hints. He 
would like to reply to every one of them, but it is out of his power 
to do this. Write again, dear unseen friends, help me with your kindly 
criticisms, encourage me with your discriminating praise : it is for such 
as you that the author would fain do better than his best. 

What kind and graceful letters, for instance, did I receive from 
Englishmen, a while ago, begging me to excuse, as a penalty of success, 
a certain book-trade speculation, purporting to be a reply to John 


398 


FROM MY LETTER-BOX. 


Bull et son Ile/^ but which was in reality a minute study of all the 
low resorts its writer had visited in Paris — for the edification of his 
compatriots, of course^ and which he had presented to those compatriots 
as a picture of French life. 

But letters are not the only form in which criticism reaches you 
through your letter-box. There are the newspaper cuttings posted to 
you by your publisher, and an occasional stray newspaper which a hind 
friend slips into the mail, in the hope that its slashing blows at your 
new-born may act as a wholesome corrective to your vanity. 

First of all, let me introduce the critic who reviews books without 
reading them. 

When my last book, 17 Ami MacDonald,’^ appeared in Paris a 
few weeks ago, the London and Paris newspapers published extracts 
from it the following day. Shortly after, an ingenuous critic, not 
coming across any mention of Mary Stuart among tliese extracts, 
ventured the opinion that it was strange for a Frenchman to write a 
book on Scotland and not devote a few pages to the unfortunate queen.^^ 
After a few other remarks equally astonishing, he gravely winds up 
with this delicious bit of unconscious humor : 

The volume is bright and entertaining : unfortunately, the author 
is apt to jump to hasty conclusions^^ 

Is he, indeed ? But you are not : if you had read the book, you 
would have seen a whole chapter devoted to the Queen of. Scots. 

The next will show you that a little knowledge of French is not 
out of place in a reviewer of French books. Here is actually a critic 
on the staff of that most pretentious of papers, the Saturday Review, 
who does not know the meaning of the French expression raison 
sociale.^^ He quotes a passage of mine, in which he comes across the 
words, and, turning up his nose at it, gives it up, saying, Whatever 
this may mean.^^ Surely it is a little too bad of this man to blame me 
for not bringing down my French to the level of his comprehension. 
What is a poor French author to do? I tried to meet the difficulty, 
and I suggested to my Paris publisher that it would be worth our 
while to supplement my next book with a French-English vocabulary 
for the use of the Saturday Reviewer. 

From another batch of papers I extract the following, which is no 
doubt meant as a graceful compliment. The reviewer winds up his 
criticism of a book of mine by saying, — 

Max O’Rell is a typical Frenchman, but a man who has been 
considerably improved by a long residence in England.’^ 

Now, dear American reader, don’t you think that if I could only 
be induced to stay a year or two in America I might have a fair chance 
of becoming perfect? 

Having boldly shown you the seamy as well as the sweet contents 
of my letter-box, let me give you one of the latest additions to my stock 
of pick-me-ups.” It is a cutting from the Plymouth Mercury, and 
came to me in a letter from Europe only a few days ago : 

It is fashionable among Englishmen to ridicule and jeer at the 
prevalence of duelling among our lively French neighbors; but there 
are few of those combats of so repulsive a character as that in which 


FEAR, 


399 


the pugilists Jem Smith and Kilrain were engaged. The show was 
degrading and beastly beyond expression. It is a thousand pities that 
Max OTiell is not at home. How delicious would have been his in- 
cisive satire, as he described the one hundred and six bouts during 
which Jem Smith was knocked silly and Kilrain severely punished^ and 
at the close of which they embraced each other and swore eternal friend- 
ship 

Stop, stop, Mr. Editor : you make me blush. But what would you 
say if you knew that your American oonfrires requested their English 
correspondents to cable them two columns a day on the slightest move- 
ments of the bruisers ? 

Let me finish by giving you some criticisms that I have coupled 
and stuck side by side in my scrap-book. 

(1) On the relations between France and England : ' 

Says London Society, Max O’Rell has done more to laugh away 

international prejudices than any living writer.^^ 

Says a little Suffolk paper, We take exception to Max O^RelPs 
books, because they are calculated to increase ill feelings between Eng- 
land and France.^’ 

(2) On women : 

Says the London Standard, Max O’Rell has a keener insight into 
the character of women than the majority of English novelists. 

Says the St Jameses Gazette, Max O’Rell^s new book is teeming 
with true observations and witticisms, but when he speaks of English- 
women he shows a lamentable ignorance of his subject.” 

(3) On your humble servant : 

Says the London Figaro, ^^Max O’Rell may still call himself a 
Frenchman ; but he now belongs to England more than to France. 
We cannot do without him.” 

Says the Scotsman, Max O’Rell is steadily growing to be a public 
nuisance in this country.” 

It must be pretty evident to my readers by this time that an author 
who took an s^ieux every criticism addressed to him would be in a fair 
way of graduating for a lunatic asylum. There are but two plans for 
him to choose from : either to make up his mind to ignore his critics 
entirely, or to adopt the philosophical one of making them provide him 
with instruction and amusement, and, in the words of Figaro in Beau- 
marchais’s celebrated Barbier de Seville,” go on his way unconcerned, 
blamed here, praised there, and ready to laugh at all around.” 

Max O^RelL 


FEAB. 

A TIMID Pain came tapping at life’s door ; 

Nor stalwart thief could make me tremble more : 

For, in far distance where I could not see, 

A longed-for Joy was travelling to me. 

Charlotte FisJce Bates, 

Yol. XLI.— 26 


400 


WITH OAVGE ^ SWALLOW. 


WITH GAUGE & SWALLOWS 

NO. ni. — A KETAINEK IN CUPID’S COURT. 

T here is no place like a lawyer^s office for taking the conceit out 
of a man and teaching him that he knows very little about any- 
thing and nothing at ail about what a lawyer is supposed to know 
most, — human nature. Men who sit in the library, or the counting- 
house even, and look at humanity through plate-glass windows, are apt 
to be very positive in their opinions on this subject. It is a favorite 
idea with mental philosophers, novelists, political economists, and 
dreamers of all sorts, that human nature is always the same. The 
lawyer knows that the rule of contraries is quite as often the key to its 
mysterious action. 

He sees day by day the wise man doing what a fool should have 
sense enough to avoid ; the tenderest-hearted committing acts which 
put to shame the brutality of the most debased ; the innocent showing 
every sign of guilt and the guilty wearing the guileless air of inno- 
cence ; the most wary doing the most imprudent things ; the shrewdest 
displaying the most amazing credulity; the most transparent frauds 
deceiving the most astute ; the most well-meaning committing the most 
atrocious crimes : — in fact, human nature showing itself to be just what 
those who claim to know most about the article are ready to swear that 
it is not. 

So he comes to regard right and wrong, sanity and insanity, reason 
and unreason, as merely relative terms, as far as motive and inclination 
are concerned. The drama of life, as he sees it, is so startling in its 
intensity and variety that he regards its tragedies and comedies as mere 
matter-of-course events, which are of no significance except as guide- 
boards to indicate the line of his duty. He is not unsympathetic, — in 
fact, he is usually the very reverse, — but his sympathy is held in check 
by his judgment, and his confidence by the knowledge that few men 
can tell the exact truth even in that confessional where self-interest 
most strongly impels to verity, — a consultation with one’s legal ad- 
viser. He expects his client to lie to him, and only believes what he 
may say when he has fully tested his capacity for truth-telling. 

No man understood this better than our Mr. Swallow. It was nat- 
ural, therefore, that a cynical smile should play about his lips when one 
morning the office-boy rushed into his presence as if shot from a cata- 
pult and placed upon the desk before him a letter and a card, exclaim- 
ing, breathlessly, — 

^^To see Mr. Swallow — upon important business 
He knew the rascal had loitered through the outer room worrying 
the clerks as it is the nature of the gamin to do, and was now in- 
dulging in mild ridicule of the feeling every client has, that his own 


♦ Copyright, 1888, by B. K. Toueobb. 


WITH GAUGE # SWALLOW. 401 

affair is one of overshadowing importance, not only to himself, but also 
to his legal adviser. 

^ Mr. Swallow read the letter, while the watchful boy twisted his 
legs about each other and purloined a pencil, an adhesive seal, and 
some other small articles from the desk. The letter was on commercial 
paper, having the printed heading 

Field, Ord & Field, 

Carpets. 

The card read, — 



Show him in,^^ said Mr. Swallow, sharply, as he laid the letter on 
his desk. 

^^Yes, sir,^^ answered the boy, with innocent •promptness, as he 
pocketed the trifles he had filched. 

He soon returned with a young man, for whom he pushed a chair 
to the side of Mr. Swallow’s desk. 

Mr. Field, I suppose?” said the Junior, turning towards him after 
the boy had gone. His elbows rested on the arms of his revolving 
chair, his head was bent forward, his fingers loosely interlocked, while 
he scanned the young man as if he had been a witness who was trying 
to dodge the truth. 

Yes, sir. You know our firm, I think?” 

I know its rating,” said Mr. Swallow, sententiously. 

The young man bowed at what he deemed a compliment. Mr. 
Swallow would have said the same thing of any firm in the country. 
He was a walking Bradstreet, and proud of the fact. Now, however, 
he was studying his man and unconscious of the flattering construction 
that had been put on his words. 

You have only recently become a partner, I believe?” 

A little more than a year ago.” 

It used to be Field, Haskell & Ord, if I remember rightly ?” 

Yes; Mr. Haskell died just after he withdrew, — about two years 

ago.” 

I had a case for them once, — a good many years ago. I have not 
met your father since, but remember him very pleasantly.” 

Still the lawyer’s face did not relax, and his voice liad a repellent 
tone which did not escape his hearer’s notice. 

You have read his letter?” he asked, uneasily. 

Yes, and, while I should be happy to serve him, I may as well 
say to you at the outset that I do not think we can take your business.” 
Mr. Swallow looked at the young man with compassionate decision as 
he spoke. 

‘Mndeed?” said his listener, anxiously. ^^May I inquire why 
not ?” 

Well, you see, Mr. Field,” said the Junior, pursing up his mouth 
and looking out of the window meditatively, if it was actual business^ 


402 


WITH QAVQE ^ SWALLOW. 


there would be no hesitation. We are business lawyers, and always 
ready for business ; but we try to keep out of the police courts, and 
especially seek to avoid every sort of case that has a woman in it. 4f 
a regular client gets into trouble of that kind we stand by him, of 
course; but we don^t hanker after that sort of practice, you under- 
stand.^^ 

But there is nothing discreditable — : — began the would-be client. 

Oh, certainly not,^^ interrupted the lawyer, with a little outward 
fling of the hands and a shrug that almost buried his head in the mas- 
sive shoulders on which it rested. Nobody ever thinks his business 
is discreditable to his attorneys. Gauge & Swallow have a reputation, 
however, that has to be maintained. Do you see the names on those 
boxes there motioning to a row of tin cases that adorned the sides 
of the vault whose door stood open at his right. We could not keep 
such names on our list of clients if we were mixed up in all sorts of 
questionable affairs. I understand from your father’s letter that you 
want our advice about a woman who has disappeared. Now, we don’t 
deal in divorces, nor manufacture evidence, nor persecute women. We 
sometimes defend criminals, but we never devise crime nor aid in carry- 
ing out criminal schemes. You have come to the wrong shop, young 
man. The only advice we could give you would be to stand up to the 
rack. If you have made a fool of yourself, grin and bear it ; but don’t 
try to use the law to throw the burden of your folly or your meanness 
on another, especially a woman.” 

The Junior straightened himself up and threw the young man’s 
card into his lap with a look of angry contempt as he concluded. The 
honor of the firm is as the apple of his eye to the great advocate, and 
his sense of justice is so keen as to amount almost to a passion. 

But I don’t want a divorce, nor do I wish to do any wrong, nor 
to procure it to be done,” answered the young man, with some confu- 
sion, but with unmistakable resentment. 

What do you want, then ?” asked the lawyer, incredulously. 

I want to find a friend, — a lady who has suddenly disappeared, — 
dropped out of the world, as one might say.” 

“ And when you have found her, then what ?” still incredulously. 

That depends ” said Field, hesitantly. 

Oh, it does ?” interrupted Mr. Swallow. Don’t tell me another 
word. I know the whole story, and don’t want to hear any more 
about it.” 

But you shall hear,” said his listener, angrily, starting from his 
chair. I don’t care whether you take the case or not, but I am not 
going to submit to your insinuations longer. I came here at my 
father’s express desire. He said you were a just man and would advise 
me honestly. I was willing to put myself in your hands and do what- 
ever you thought an honorable man should do ; but I can’t stand such 
imputations.” 

Is the woman your wife?” asked the lawyer, imperturbably. 

I don’t know,” half defiantly. 

^^Oh, you don’t?” with a snee;*. You were deceived, inveigled, 
betrayed into a form of marriage, 1 suppose? Or is it the stale old 


WITH GAUGE # SWALLOW. 403 

story of a mock marriage turning out a real one ? At any rate, you 
are no doubt an innocent victim of a woman’s wiles.” 

I am not a victim, and do not pretend to be innocent,” said the 
other, doggedly. 

You don’t? Well, you are an anomaly. Sit down and let me 
look at you again. If you could find the lady now, you would be glad 
to make her your wife, I suppose, assuming that she is not legally so 
already, endow her with your earthly goods, and clothe her with all 
marital privileges ?” 

Nothing would give me greater pleasure.” 

Indeed ! But how about your father ? He speaks of it as a 
disgraceful affair.” 

He means upon my part, not upon the lady’s.” 

And he would be willing you should marry the — lady?” 

He threatens me with his disfavor if I do not.” 

The devil ! That’s a new feature. Why didn’t you tell me that 
before ?” 

You wouldn’t let me tell you anything.” 

^‘Well, there’s something in that,” said Mr. Swallow, with his 
characteristic chuckle. You say you want to find a woman who may 
be your wife or ought to be, whom, if not already such, you desire to 
make so, and whom your father and family are willing to receive.” 

Exactly.” 

Were you the cause of her disappearance?” 

I suppose so,” said the young man, confusedly. 

See here, Mr. Field,” said Mr. Swallow, jocosely, I don’t see 
how we can help you. We can’t do your courting for you nor make 
up a lovers’ quarrel.” 

You can^elp me to find the lady and advise me what to do after- 
wards,” said the other, smiling at the lawyer’s jest. 

We are not detectives, Mr. Field.” 

But you can employ detectives.” 

So can you, for that matter.” 

Not without compromising one who has suffered too much already 
by my stupidity.” 

You think so?” said Mr. Swallow, meditatively, adding, after a 
moment, Well, I don’t know, Mr. Field ; it’s out of our line, but 
if you have a mind to tell me the whole matter from the beginning, 
not mentioning names, of course, if the story seems probable, and I 
think we can be of service to you, we — that is, I will talk with Mr. 
Gauge about it. If we don’t undertake the business there will be no 
harm done.” 

The young man bowed assent to these conditions. Mr. Swallow 
touched his bell. 

I shall be engaged for half an hour,” he said to the boy who 
answered his call. — ^‘Now go on, Mr. Field. Make your story as 
short as you can, but tell it all.; don’t hide anything.” 

I have no wish to do so,” was the reply. 

After a moment’s silence, the young man proceeded : 

It was three years ago, that a young lady, the daughter of one of 


404 


WITH GAUGE SWALLOW. 


our neighbors, was placed in my care to escort to some Western rela- 
tives she wished to visit. She was -a mere girl, not more than fifteen 
or sixteen, though she appeared several years older. I had known her 
from childhood, and was exceedingly fond of her. Being a good ten 
years older, I can hardly be said to have been a suitor. Even when a 
child, however, I had called her my little sweetheart, and she had 
vowed over and over again with infantile abandon that she would never 
marry any one but me. Our country-place adjoined her father’s resi- 
dence, and the families were on terms of intimacy. Though her father’s 
circumstances were rather straitened, her education had not been neg- 
lected. It was not then completed, which was perhaps the reason why 
I had never thought of her except as a school-girl. 

I was travelling for the house then, having a couple of Western 
States assigned to me which I was required to canvass every spring and 
autumn. The relatives she was to visit lived in one of these States, and 
it was the most natural thing in the world that she should be placed in 
my care to make the journey. She had never been away from home be- 
fore ; and I suppose, if the truth were known, it was the attraction of 
reduced rates on excursion-tickets that led her parents to allow her to 
go. I am sure she would. not have been permitted to do so except with 
one in whom they had the utmost confidence. It was arranged that she 
should buy a ticket to the Falls and return : at that point she was to 
get ^a scalper’s’ ticket to the Western city near her destination, and on 
her return to sell, at the same place, the unused coupons of a round-trip 
ticket she would purchase at the West. This compelled a stop at the 
Falls, going and returning, but made the trip a very inexpensive one, 
and this delay was not regarded as any hardship by a young girl who 
had never seen the mist of Niagara. I am careful to explain these 
things, sir, in order that you may understand that wjiat afterwards 
occurred was not of my planning. 

We had intended to pass through New York without stopping 
more than a few hours ; but, as luck would have it, when we reached 
the junction the train from the North had brought a maiden aunt of 
mine who lived up in the Berkshire Hills, on her way to the metropolis. 
When a boy I had passed one or two summers under her roof, but, as 
there was not the very best of feeling between her and my mother, 
there had been very little intercourse between her and the family since. 
I had visited her once or twice, and every Christmas sent her a present 
and received in return a letter expressive of the warmest and tenderest 
affection. Thus I was the sole medium of communication between her 
and our family. 

I had jokingly promised that when I married I would bring my 
bride to visit her upon our wedding-journey, of which fact she never 
failed to remind me when she wrote. She was a most excellent lady, 
and, except her attachment for me and a pretty large share of curiosity, 
had hardly a foible. I recognized her as soon as she entered the car, 
and went forward to take her bundles, intending to give her a place in 
the double seat we had taken. As I turned back from greeting my 
relative, it flashed upon me for the first time that my companion had 
grown from a very pretty girl into a beautiful woman. I knew then 


WITH GAUGE ^ SWALLOW. 


405 


that I had loved her ever since I could remember, almost, and some- 
how felt that she had the same feeling for me. I noticed that her light- 
gray travelling-suit with the silvery veil knotted at her throat gave her 
a very bride-like appearance, and thought with quiet pleasure that I 
would some time take a journey with her in a nearer relation. She rose 
as I returned with my aunt and stood with her hand half extended, 
awaiting an introduction. I suppose some exclamation I had made 
informed her who it was that I had recognized. My aunt flashed one 
glance at this charming picture and jumped to a startling conclusion 
which she announced in tones audible to the whole car. 

^ Ah, you naughty boy she exclaimed. ‘ Didn’t you promise to 
bring your wife to see me on your bridal trip ?’ 

For the life of me I could not help blushing. My companion’s 
face was all aflame, but her eyes sought mine with a look of amused 
confidence. More to relieve her embarrassment than my own, I said, 
as I tried to induce my garrulous relative to sit down, — 

^ Oh, I hadn’t forgotten you, auntie : we were coming your way 
on the return trip.’ . 

^ I don’t believe it, sir !’ she exclaimed, in half-assumed anger. 

^ You didn’t think a word about me. I never got an invitation, nor a 
j)iece of cake, nor had any intimation of the matter at all. Though,’ 
she added, as if she would give me a chance to excuse my neglect, ^I’ve 
been away from home pretty near a month, and might have missed it 
if it had been sent.’ 

We were standing in the middle of the car. The passengers 
were inspecting us with that kindly curiosity always bestowed upon a 
bridal party. I wished the train would start or my loud-voiced rela- 
tive be struck dumb. Neither event seemed likely to occur. What 
could I do but humor the good woman’s self-deception ? I could not 
bawl out to that car-load of spectators that we were not bride and 
groom ; that we were only acquaintances, — friends. Our flushed faces 
betrayed us, and their kindly interest would have turned to unkindly 
ridicule had I done so. I could only answer as I did, in as careless 
a tone as I could command : 

‘ That’s the reason. You’ll find everything will turn up O. K. 
on your return.’ 

My aunt looked at me doubtingly. 

^ I don’t know about believing you,’ she said. ^ A man is apt to 
forget everything but himself at such a time. — Is he telling the truth ?’ 
she asked, turning suddenly to my companion. ^ Did he ever speak of 
me ?’ 

How grateful I felt when the blushing girl answered, in tones 
more composed than I could have imagined possible, — 

^ Oh, certainly : I feel quite well acquainted with you. You are 
Aunt Keziah, are you not ?’ 

^ Of course I am,’ said the delighted spinster, her doubts now 
wholly removed. ^ And what is your name, dear ?’ 

My companion murmured her given name, and my relative em- 
braced her with great effusion. I looked about the car to see if any of 
my acquaintances were aboard to witness my discomfiture. Not a single 


406 


WITH GAUGE cj- SWALLOW. 


familiar face ! Then I remembered that it was afternoon, and I was 
accustomed to come into the city on the early morning train. I felt 
relieved, thinking I could easily undeceive my fond old relative when 
opportunity offered. 

“ ‘ Sit down, auntie,^ I said, gayly, as the train started, making room 
for her on the seat beside my friend. 

‘ No, no,^ she remonstrated, ^ I shan^t sit there. I couldn’t think 
of separating young married people. Besides that, I want you .both 
where I can look at you. I declare, Frank, it makes me real glad. I 
never thought you could persuade such a refined and handsome lady 
to take pity on a confirmed old bachelor. — There, there, don’t blush, 
my dear ! Every one knows you are handsome, and every one knows, 
too, that you are a bride. — Really, Frank, I don’t blame you. I think 
I am in love with her myself already.’ 

This and much more we had to face on the Avay to the city. I 
could not tell the good lady of her mistake without taking all the 
people in the car into our confidence and unnecessarily mortifying my 
aunt, of whom I was really very fond. My companion appreciated my 
dilemma, and helped me with a ready tact that inspired my gratitude 
and confirmed my love. But there was even worse to come. Learning 
that we were to go to Chicago via Niagara Falls, she announced her in- 
tention to make us her guests until our departure. As she could not 
receive us at home, she would at least make us the recipient of a sort 
of hospitality in the city. She informed us also that she was- herself 
on her way to Oregon to take charge of the family of a deceased rela- 
tive, and would go on with us the next day if we would wait. She 
had sold the old homestead, she said, and very probably we would 
never see her again. This, of course, made it impossible to refuse her 
kindness, as no good reason could be given for doing so. Besides, I 
was not unwilling to prolong a journey which offered such delightful 
opportunity to enjoy the society of the woman I had just learned to love. 

Though not a woman one would expect to meet in society, my 
aunt knew the hotels of the metropolis, and was known of them. I 
had to look after the baggage on our arrival, and there was no chance 
to explain the mistake until we reached the hotel. Here she waved us 
authoritatively to the waiting-room, while she stepped to the cleik’s 
desk and registered. H did not occur to me for a minute in what 
a dilemma we might be placed. To tell the truth, I was so glad to be 
alone a moment with my new-found love that I could think of little 
else. When I did recover my wits and rushed out to the desk, the 
mischief was done. None but a bridegroom was ever met with such a 
look of commiserating condescension as the clerk bestowed upon me. 
It was as unmistakable as my aunt’s proud smile. Edging up to the 
register, I saw the entry, ^ Mr. Frank Field & Wife,’ in my aunt’s 
rather formidable chirography. There was no mistaking its import, 
however. A room had been assigned to her, and another to the sup- 
posed bridal couple. All I could do was to manoeuvre for another 
still. This I secured by telling my aunt that I had telegraphed for a 
friend to meet me, to whom I must send a messenger, as I had intended 
to dine at another hotel. As I had some business with him, I informed 


WITH GAUGE ^ SWALLOW. 


407 


her that I should ask him to stay and go with us to the theatre. So I 
secured the key to a room adjoining those already assigned, and that 
difficulty was tided over without a scene.^^ 

Did the girl know of the registration 
Not at the time.^^ 

While you were at the hotel, I mean.^^ 

I told her that night between the acts at the theatre.’^ 

Of course growled Mr. Swallow. Let a man alone for being 
a fool, whenever he gets a chance ! Go on.^^ 

It is curious how quickly a lawyer comes to identify himself with 
the client whose interest he has espoused. 

It happened,’^ continued Field, that my aunt^s preference in the 
matter of hotels did not correspond with mine, so that I met nobody 
whom I knew.^^ 

I suppose you made no new acquaintances 
My aunt did introduce us to several people.’^ 

As Mr. and Mrs. Field, I suppose 

Yes. You see, I couldnh 

Don’t stop to excuse yourself!” savagely. Go on.” 

Nothing more happened worth mentioning until we reached the 
Falls.” 

There you registered again in the same way, I suppose ?” 

^^Yes. I was afraid to do otherwise, lest my garrulous relative 
should get us into trouble.” 

Certainly. One lie makes a man a coward for ever afterwards. 
Did the girl know it this time ?” 

Yes, I explained to her before we arrived just how I was situated.” 
And she assented ?” 

‘‘ I suppose so. She did not object.” 

Did she say anything about it?” 

Well, yes : the next day when I apologized for the awkwardness 
of the situation and said I hoped she would allow me to accompany her 
some time on a real wedding journey, she granted my request, but said, 
with shy solemnity, that it seemed to her as if we were married already.” 

So you were I” exclaimed Mr, Swallow. Talk about a woman’s 
instinct ! You were a man of the world, she an unpractised child, but 
she knew you were married, while you never di;eamed you had assumed 
a husband’s responsibility. Ten to one she kept herself thenceforward 
from all others, as if the sacrament of the^ church had hallowed your 
union.” 

^^She did,” continued the young man, humbly. ^^We bade my 
aunt good-by in Chicago,” he continued, went to a hotel, and re- 
sumed our proper characters ; drove about the city until the time for 
our train, and were happier — at least I was — than I had ever been 
before ” 

Well, what next?” 

She returned about a month afterwards.” 

You made it convenient to come with her, I suppose?” 

‘^Yes.” 

And you registered at the Falls again as man and wife ?” 


408 


WITH GAUGE ^ SWALLOW. 


I did not dare risk doing otherwise.^^ 

Of course ; you are not the first coward. AVell 

She went back to school, and I saw her but seldom. After Mr. 
HaskelPs death I went abroad.^^ 

You gave no explanation to any one?’^ 

You announced your engagement to her parents?’^ 

I am sorry to say we did not.^^ 

You corresponded, of course 
^^Yes.’^ 

How did you address her, — in your letters, I mean?’^ 

^‘As a lover naturally would, I suppose, said Field, blushing 
furiously. 

No, you didif t exclaimed Swallow, fiercely. You addressed 

her as your wife. Didn’t you, now ? Don’t dodge !” 

I don’t wish to, sir. I did, though it was only a jesting allusion 
to our queer adventure.” 

Of course ; you didn’t mean anything. A man never does when 
he is in love. What did the girl do ? Did she follow your example 
and address you as her husband ? I’ll stake odds she didn’t.” 

She used my Christian name, — or a dash.” 

My dear — blank, I suppose you mean ?” 

The young man nodded. 

I vow !” said Mr. Swallow, springing to his feet. You stir my 
admiration for her good sense. A blank may mean anything or nothing. 
It is a hieroglyph, to be construed according to the context and — cir- 
cumstances. Well, what next ? Really, this is growing interesting.” 

A few months ago my aunt returned from Oregon ” 

Whew !” whistled the lawyer. ^^And you?” 

I was coming home by way of Constantinople and Egypt, and 
knew nothing of it. No one knew where to address me, and I have 
only just arrived. Her father was very angry with her, and very 
violent, refusing to listen to any explanation; denounced me to my 
parents, sold everything he had, and sailed for Europe. His daughter 
went on board the steamer with her parents, but after it sailed could 
not be found.” 

Dead ?” asked Swallow, in a horrified tone. 

I do not think so,” said Field, growing pale nevertheless. On 
my return I received a letter from her, asking me to be content with 
what I had done, and not insult her by thinking of her again.” 

Where was it mailed ?” 

It was forwarded by her father from London.” 

Does he know her whereabouts ?” 

I think not. He refuses to hold any communication at all with 
me, however : so I am not sure.” 

Well?” 

^^That is all.” 

And you want ?” 

First of all, to find this lady,” handing Mr. Swallow a photograph. 

Next, to know what relation I sustain to her.” 


WITH GAUGE ^ SWALLOW. 


409 


The last is easily told, Mr. Field. Having acknowledged her as 
your wife, you cannot, according to the law of this State, avoid the 
responsibility of the relation you assumed. The law presumes the con- 
tract of marriage from its acknowledgment, — so far as the man is 
concerned, at least. How far the lady would be bound is not very 
clear. For obvious reasons, probably not to the same extent. In this 
case, she could no doubt sue you for maintenance, obtain a divorce for 
cause, recover alimony for desertion, and would unquestionably be en- 
titled to dower in case of your death. At the same time, she could 
probably avoid the presumption as to herself, if she should choose, by 
pleading that she was inexperienced, deceived, or overawed, and any 
jury would believe her. Legally, therefore, you are in this predicament : 
she may at any time claim you as her husband, while you cannot claim 
her as your wife. If she were inclined to be obstinate you might find 
yourself in for a most unpleasant criminal charge, as well as an action 
sounding in damages. I do not look for either of these, however, from 
what you tell me of her character. Now, what do you propose to 
do?” 

Simply to acknowledge the fact, — admit myself legally her hus- 
band, and seek to be recognized by her as such, if she will permit.^^ 

Do you understand that to do so would be to bind yourself irrev- 
ocably ? Marriage once fully admitted is indissoluble except by decree 
of a court, which can be secured only for cause.^^ 

So I supposed.^^ 

Had you not better wait until you find her and learii her feelings 
towards you ?” 

I have already delayed doing justice too long.^^ 

But how will you do it ? You cannot publish what you have told 
me from the house-tops.^^ 

I can write on her portrait, ^ This is my wife,’ sign my name to it, 
and send it to all who know her. That will silence her detractors at 
least,” said the young man, impetuously, 

^^That is an idea,” replied the lawyer, thoughtfully. After a 
moment he added, Come and see me to-morrow at three o’clock. In 
the mean time I will consult Mr. Gauge and decide on some course of 
action, — that is, if we conclude to take the case,” he added, cautiously. 

I hope you will, Mr. Swallow,” said the young man, earnestly. 

Well, we shall see,” replied the Junior, chuckling, as he bowed 
his visitor out. 

Mr. Swallow sauntered into the Senior’s room when his client had 
withdrawn, rubbing his hands together complacently. 

Well, Gauge,” he said, jocularly, I’ve undertaken the queerest job 
just now this firm has ever had in hand.” 

What is that ?” asked the Senior. 

Simply to overthrow one of the oldest maxims of the law.” 

Which one of the ancient landmarks do you propose to obliterate 
now, you inveterate iconoclast ?” asked Ihe Senior, smiling up at his 
robust associate. 

Comensm fa(M matrimonium” was the oracular response. 

I must confess I don’t see how we can dispense with that maxim 


410 


WITH GAUGE ^ SWALLOW. 


just now. As long as marriage is a part of our law, that is a bit of 
Littleton which I think will stand/^ responded the other. 

Well, I have engaged — subject to your approval, of course — to 
maintain a marriage to which neither party consented, and which was 
never consummated ; and you’ve got to help me, old fellow.” 

It can’t be done,” said Mr. Gauge, confidently. 

Then Mr. Swallow narrated briefly what he had learned. 

“ What is the lady’s name ?” asked his partner, quietly. 

Really,” said Mr. Swallow, in confusion, I was so interested in 
the case, and so absorbed in wondering what you would think of it, 
that I didn’t inquire.” 

Mr. Gauge looked up over his glasses at the blushing Junior, and 
said, good-naturedly, — 

That’s about the last thing one would expect from you.” 

Then they both laughed heartily. Different as they are in char- 
acter, the most cordial relations have always existed between the two 
great lawyers. 

I’ve got her likeness, anyhow,” said Mr. Swallow, going back to 
his desk and returning with the photograph. Mr. Gauge examined it 
carefully. 

You say her father started for Europe and she left the vessel after 
they went on board ? Such things do not happen every day. When 
did this occur ?” 

‘^Really, I — I did not learn,” stammered the Junior, blushing 
again like a school-boy. 

Indeed !” said the Senior : one would hardly expect you to be so 
susceptible, — at your age, too.” 

Then they laughed again. They understood each other thoroughly, 
and could afford to laugh at each other’s foibles. 

I suppose you know whether it was this year or last ?” 

Oh, this year, — only a short time ago.” 

Well, now, I wonder if we are not both at work on the same 
job ! I wish I knew,” said the Senior, thoughtfully. 

He* looked at the photograph a moment, touched his bell quickly, 
and said to the boy who answered it, — 

Ask Mr. Fountain to come here.” 

A moment after I stood before him, inquiring what might be his 
pleasure. 

Do you know who that is ?” he asked, thrusting the photograph 
before me. 

I suppose I must have exhibited some confusion, for he asked, 
impatiently, — 

Well, who is it ?” 

I may be mistaken, sir, but I don’t think I am.” 

Pshaw ! Don’t you know that a man may mistake a face, but 
never a photograph ? One may fail to recognize a portrait, but if he 
does recognize it he is never mistaken. Who is it, now ?” 

I should say — it was Miss Florence Cadmus.” 

Just as I thought !” shouted the Senior. We’ll take the case, 
Mr. Swallow. — That will do, Mr. Fountain. Much obliged.” 


WITH GAUGE ^ SWALLOW, 


411 


I went back to my desk, wondering what had interested the firm so 
greatly in a young lady who had come to hold* quite a prominent place 
in my dreams. 

I was excessively troubled as I smoked my cigar in my humble 
lodgings that night. Professor Cadmus’s commendation of my hand- 
writing and an opportunity to study his methods had led me to seek 
to improve myself in the art of penmanship by assiduous practice, 
with the idea of making my unemployed evenings contribute some- 
thing to my exchequer. That very day I had started to put my plan 
into execution by advertising to give private lessons. All day I had 
been on nettles lest my associates should discover my secret. Now I 
opened the Herald to see how my advertisement looked. As I did so, 
my eye fell upon an announcement just above and completely over- 
shadowing mine : 


Temple of Chirographic Art, 

Corner Street and Broadway. 

All styles of handwriting taught by a teacher having ten years of 
training under Professor Cadmus. 

Address Miss Estelle Florence, Sec. 

The Temple of Chirographic Art” ! It was one of the professor’s 
pet ideas ! Who could Miss Estelle Florence be ? All at once it 
flashed upon me. 

Florence Estelle Cadmus !” I said to myself. What did it all 
mean? I knew the professor had gone abroad, and I had seen his 
daughter’s likeness canvassed by the heads of the firm that day. Did 
it mean anything to her prejudice or something to her advantage ? At 
any rate, she ought to know the facts which had come to my knowl- 
edge ; and I determined to lose no time in acquainting her with them. 

The next morning on my way to the office I called at the Temple 
of Chirographic Art.” It was exactly the professor’s ideal of such a 
school, — the fourth story of a large building which seemed to have 
been made on purpose for it, — a dozen small rooms, with one large one 
in front. I saw through the half-open door that all were well fur- 
nished, not with desks, but with small tables and chairs. The front 
room had also a blackboard. Knocking at the door of the secretary’s 
office, I was bidden to enter in a voice I could not mistake, though I 
hardly recognized the lady who rose to welcome me. 

The massive coil of hair I had so greatly admired had disappeared, 
and, in its stead, short clustering curls adorned the comely head. Her 
eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed as she gave me a hearty greeting : 

Why, &. Fountain, I did not expect to see you so soon ! When 
did you get my letter?” 

Letter !” I had received none, and so stated. 

A few words explained everything that needed explanation. She 
had left her parents on the eve of their departure for Europe, owing to 
a misunderstanding with her father ; had gone to friends who sheltered 
her during a severe illness and loaned her money for her present venture, 
which she had undertaken under an assumed name to save herself from 


412 


WITH GAUGE ^ SWALLOW. 


being talked about. She had written me on seeing my advertisement 
the day before, both because she feared I might suspect her identity and 
to ascertain if she could secure my services as a teacher, evenings. 

Then I told her what had induced my visit. She listened quietly, 
asked a few. questions, but offered no explanation. When I had fin- 
ished she said, — 

Mr. Fountain, I want a friend who will serve me faithfully, ask 
no questions, and never doubt, whatever may occur. Will you be that 
friend 

There was no hint of embarrassment in her voice or manner. I 
knew such a friend would never be anything more to her ; but I accepted. 
Somehow I felt that she needed protection, and was glad to have her 
look to me for it. Such enterprises as the Temple of Chirographic 
Art were not often undertaken by women in those days, especially at 
the East. I was sure she would succeed ; but it was necessary that 
she should not seem to be alone. Her first remark after thanking 
me for acceding to her request showed that she realized this. 

Now,^^ she said, I want an old man, — old enough to be my 
father, — who can write and look dignified, to be at the head of. this 
establishment. He need not do anything except sit here from nine to 
twelve ; but he must be a gentleman, understand business, be able to 
write, and worthy of absolute confidence. Can you find me such a 
man 

I thought I could if she gave me leave to speak freely of herself 
and her undertaking. That afternoon I brought Mr. Burrill to see 
her. As a result of some conversation with Mr. Gauge, it was arranged 
the next day that Burrill should only come to the office in the after- 
noons, and that I should be allowed to leave at a rather earlier hour 
than was then usual in our office. 

A day or two afterwards I received a neat card, on which was 
pasted a photograph ; below it were printed these words : 

The lady whose portrait is given above is my beloved wife, Flor- 
ence C. Field, who was separated from me by untoward accident. Should 
any one to whom this may come recognize the original of this photo- 
graph, he will confer a favor by placing this in her hands and sending 
her address to P.O. Box 31, New York City. 

(Signed) Frank Fielb.^^ 

I complied with the first of these requests. Burrill was present 
when I placed the card in Miss Florence's hands. 

It is a lie ! — a mean, cowardly lie she exclaimed, stamping her 
foot angrily. He wishes to persecute and annoy me, and Gauge & 
Swallow are doing his dirty work for him.^^ 

Begging your pardon,’^ said Burrill, firmly but deferentially. 
Gauge & Swallow donft do dirty work for anybody 

Miss Florence made no reply. 

The Temple of Chirographic Art,^^ despite its absurd name, or 
perhaps because of it, was a success from the first. Whatever strikes 
the public fancy is sure to go. I do not think it was so much the pre- 


WITH GAUGE ^ SWALLOW. 


413 


tentious title as the fact that was soon apparent that common sense and 
good work were hidden under it. There was nothing cheap about the 
Temple’^ except its name. I always blushed when I saw that. But 
there Avas no lack of worshippers. Private lessons at a high rate or 
public ones at a lower, — that Avas what the institution offered. But it 
promised nothing it was not able to perform. Morning and evening 
its classes were full. Every hour of the day its private rooms Avere 
engaged, sometimes by individuals and sometimes by friendly parties 
who were not ashamed to have one another know their desire to write 
legibly. Burrill taught a class in laAV-copying and engrossing on man- 
uscript in the morning ; I taught in the evening ; and Miss Florence 
taught all the time. Burrill made an ideal manager, and was devoted 
to the interests of the institution. As for Miss Florence, she had not 
only her fathers skill, but also his wonderful faculty for imparting 
knowledge. So matters went on quietly enough ; she appeared content, 
and it seemed as if there was no danger that her interest in the work 
Avould flag. 

Mr. Frank Field came to the office every day, — for ncAvs of the 
loved and lost,^^ the boy said. His secret leaked out, and he was always 
greeted with a smile by the clerks. He seemed neither disconsolate nor 
exultant. I could not but admire his persistency, and almost wished I 
might give him a hint of what he seemed so anxious to know. 

Some months passed in this manner, when one day Mr. Gauge , 
requested me to take a letter to Mr. Burrill. 

You know where he is at this time of day, Mr. Fountain, and it 
is important that I should have an answer at once. Take a cab,^^ he 
added, as I left the room. 

Twenty minutes after, I handed the letter to Burrill, and before he 
had broken the seal Mr. Gauge himself entered the office of the Temple 
of Chirographic Art.^^ 

I Avould like,’^ he said, suavely, to see Miss Estelle Florence.'^^ 

There AA^as no help for it. The twinkle in his eye showed that he 
had penetrated our secret. I went and found her, told her what had 
happened, and would have left her to flght her battle with the Senior 
alone, but she requested me to remain. I expected a rating, and was 
preparing my defence, when Mr. Gauge said, — 

I do not need to look tAvice to know that you are the person we 
have been doubly retained to discover.^^ 

I suppose now I must look for further persecution,’^ said the brave 
girl, as she faced him with flashing eyes. 

Not at all.” said Mr. Gauge. Your father employed us to hunt 
you up, see that you suffered for nothing, and ask your pardon for his 
harshness. He would be glad to receive you back, but realizes that he 
has forfeited the right to control your action.” 

There was a quiver about the girl’s mouth, but she said nothing. 

As for Mr. Field ” continued the Senior. 

I will hear nothing about him,” said Miss Florence, interrupting. 
If he had been a man he would haAie seen that he had done me harm 
enough already, without advertising me all over the country like a stray 


414 


WITH GAUGE ^ SWALLOW. 


I beg your pardon/^ said the Senior, kindly. Nothing of the 
kind has been done.’^ 

She flew to her desk and snatched from it the card I had given her : 

What do you call that?^^ 

It is a card which has been sent to a few of your friends, in order 
to relieve you from the imputation caused by Mr. Field’s former care- 
lessness and ignorance of the law. You will perceive that it is an 
explicit admission of marriage, not an assertion of marital rights.” 

I don’t know anything about it, and I don’t want to hear of him 
again, — ever !” 

I am sorry for that,” said the Senior, coolly, for there are one or 
two questions that have to be settled, and you are the only one who 
can decide them.” 

The girl had dried her eyes, ajid faced him with angry determination. 

In the first place,” said Mr. Gauge, I want to know who is to 
pay for all the advertising Gauge & Swallow have done for the ‘ Tem- 
ple of Chirographic Art.’ Here are thousands of costly cards giving 
Professor Cadmus’s opinion of your merits in a fac-siinile of his own 
inimitable handwriting, a lot of puffs costing a hundred dollars a 
column, and I have no idea how many thousand circulars, which we 
have mailed to all parts of the country. Now, here are two men who 
both insist on paying the bills. What shall we do ?” 

I shall pay them myself,” she said, extending her hand, and 
biting her lip to keep back the tears. 

Unfortunately, we have already paid the bills, by the express 
order of both our clients. The only question is, which ought to be 
allowed to reimburse us.” 

You had better charge it to both, so as to make no mistake,” she 
answered, with something like a sneer. 

That is not the kind of double-entry Gauge & Swallow prac- 
tise”’ said the Senior, with a twinkle. Besides that, there is another 
trouble. Mr. Marshall Field informed his son, as soon as he heard of 
the affair, that if you did not acknowledge him as your husband within 
six months he would turn him out of the firm and cut him off with a 
shilling, as he will have nothing to do with a blackguard such as he 
must be if you refuse to accept him. Here is his letter, and you will 
see that the time is nearly up.” 

Oh, do go away !” she exclaimed. Are there no gentlemen left 
in the world, that I must be hunted and badgered by lawyers and de- 
tectives, simply because I try to make an honest living when those 
who should have given me protection leave me to bear the burden of 
their neglect and cowardice? Are you, too, in this plot?” she asked, 
turning upon Burrill and myself. 

Before either of us could answer, the Senior interposed, in a voice 
as gentle as a girl’s : 

My dear young lady, they knew no more than you. Instead of 
seeking to persecute, every one has sought to protect. Should my own 
daughter ever meet with trouble of any kind, I can only hope that she 
may find as loyal friends as you have met, and bear herself as bravely 
under difficulty.” 


THE DIFFERENCE. 


415 


He bowed with profound reverence as he withdrew. She leaned 
her head upon her arms on the open desk before her, and Burrill and I 
stole out at the Senior’s heels. Mr. Frank Field was in the hall 
outside. Mr. Gauge pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, and 
said, — 

We throw up our brief, sir. Your matter is in a court where 
Gauge & Swallow are not licensed to practise.” 

Sir. Field entered the room and closed the door. 

I do not think we need wait for the verdict,” the Senior added, 
with a smile, as his client disappeared. 

Gentlemen,” said Mr. Gauge, in his blandest manner, as we drove 
back to the office, I am proud of your loyalty to a distressed woman, 
but you ought not to think you could hoodwink Gauge & Swallow.” 

How did you find it out, sir?” asked Burrill, humbly 

^^Mr. Fountain’s face gave away his secret. We just put a man 
on his track, and knew as much as he did in twenty- four hours. You 
acted nobly, gentlemen, and will lose nothing by having done so. I 
have arranged a sale of the business to a Mercantile College firm, on 
condition that you retain your professorships in the new institution, — 
if Miss Florence will consent to sell, that is.” 

She did consent. There was a gay wedding soon after. All of 
Gauge & Swallow’s clerks were invited. I did not go, my mother’s 
health requiring me to be absent from the city at that time : that, at 
least, was the excuse I rendered. 

I have held a professorship of commercial law ever since. It has 
not been worth much in a professional way, — such things don’t count 
for much at the bar, — but the salary has been a consideration. It has 
given me some practice, too, which has gone in with Gauge & Swal- 
low’s, but always under my name, and the fees and costs have been 
carried to my credit without charge for service or assistance. 

Albion W. Tour gee. 


THE DIFFERENCE. 

S HE stood beside the summer sea 
As radiant as the morn : 

I read in her enraptured eyes 
That Love was born. 

She crouched beside the winter sea 
As though all hope had fled ; 

I saw within her haggard, eyes 
That Love was dead. 


Voi. XLI.— 27 


William H, Hague, 


416 


A TALK WITH A PRESIDENT'S SON. 


A TALK WITH A PRESIDENTS SON. 

& ENERAL JOHN TYLER, the son of the President, lives at 
Washington. He is a fine-looking old man, with a great dome- 
like head covered with a shock of silky hair which is now the color of 
silver. He has a broad, high forehead, bright, friendly blue eyes 
which fill with earnestness as he talks, and fair-skinned features cast in 
the same mould as those of his father. He is the second son of Presi- 
dent Tyler, and he has, perhaps, lived as much history as any man now 
living. He was associated with his father in his political struggles 
during the days of Jackson and Van Buren, and he w'as old enough at 
the time of President Harrison’s death to become the private secretary 
of his father. Throughout all of that stormy administration which 
succeeded the death of Harrison he w^as the confidant of President Tyler 
and his party. I have had many chats with him about the Tyler ad- 
ministration, and in them he has' told me much of its unwritten history. 

His talk about his father is especially interesting, and in the follow- 
ing article 1 give the substance of a recent conversation, omitting my 
questions and repeating General Tyler’s own words. “ My father,” said 
General Tyler, was esteemed a very fine-looking man. He was tall 
and well formed, and he looked much like the greater Pitt. We often 
had visitors at the White House from abroad who commented upon this 
resemblance, and Pitt’s portraits were sometimes sent to us as likenesses 
of President Tyler. 

My father’s face and figure bore also a striking resemblance to that 
of the Duke of Wellington. During the discussion as to the exchequer 
plan. Sir Horseley Palmer, the president of the Bank of England, 
came to this country. When he landed at New York he stopped at 
the Howard House, which was a great hotel for fashionable people in 
early days. His first act here was to go into the barber-shop in the 
lower part of the house to get shaved. While he was waiting for his 
turn he picked up a newspaper, and there read my father’s letter in 
regard to the exchequer, which was published that day. As he con- 
cluded it. Sir Horseley Palmer dropped the paper, and, rushing out of 
the sho]) without waiting for his shave, took the first train to Washing- 
ton. He came from the d^pot straight to the White House, and, enter- 
ing the private secretary’s room, which you know adjoins that of the 
President, he asked me if he could see President Tyler. We had dem- 
ocratic ways then, and I pointed to the next room, where my father 
was engaged with another gentleman, telling him that the President 
was in and could be seen. Sir Horseley Palmer stepped to the door, 
which was open, and looked in. As he saw my father facing him, he 
started back involuntarily, and, raising his hands, exclaimed, ^ My 
God ! there is the Duke of Wellington !’ And indeed the likeness of 
my father to the hero of Waterloo is very striking. He possessed the 
same race-blood as both Pitt and Wellington, and I think he had many 
traits in common with those men. 


A TALK WITH A PRESIDENT’S SON. 


417 


The White House was managed very differently during the days 
of Tyler than it is now. The President had to pay the expenses of 
lighting and heatings and even the cost of the lights of the lamps in 
front of the White House was charged to him. For my services as 
private secretary I reO^ved not one dollar from the government, and 
my father spent the whole of his salary in keeping up the Presidential 
establishment. President Tyler was very plain in his dress and very 
simple in all his habits. It was his custom to go to bed promptly at 
ten o^clock, and it came to be known that this was the rule even in the 
White House. He rose before daylight, and was often at his desk as 
early as three o’clock in the morning. He worked by the light of a 
candle, and did the most of his Presidential work before breakfast. At 
nine A.M. we had breakfast, generally en famille. After that father 
spent the morning, till Congress met, in receiving the many Repre- 
sentatives and Senators who called. At noon he held his Cabinet meet- 
ings, and after thes^ were over he received the publia 

My father looked upon the Cabinet in a different light from 
that in which it is viewed by the President of to-day. He believed 
it was purely an auxiliary of the President, formed to aid him in 
carrying out his ideas, and in the furthering of his own lines of 
policy. In matters connected with the various Departments he ad- 
vised with the respective secretaries separately. His Cabinet meetings 
were not held to consider Department details, and the questions dis- 
cussed at them were those of national interest and the general policy of 
the administration. His Cabinet underwent many changes during his 
term, — changes which were intentional on his part. H-e formed his Cab- 
inets so as to have them correspond with tlie issues he intended to bring 
before them. For instance, he kept Daniel Webster at the head of 
the State Department, because he thought him better fitted than any 
other man to deal with the Northeast boundary line and to manage 
the negotiations with regard to it. When new questions came up he 
changed his Cabinet to suit them. He always ruled his Cabinet, and 
did not permit them to dictate to him. 

When my father succeeded to the Presidency he continued Presi- 
dent Harrison’s Cabinet in office, until he found that they were working 
against him. His first Cabinet meeting was held on the day succeeding 
the death of President Harrison. When all the members were present, 
and the doors were closed, Mr. Webster, the Secretary of State, arose 
and gravely addressed my father, saying, ^ Mr. President, I suppose you 
intend to carry out the ideas and customs of your predecessor, and this 
administration, inaugurated by President Harrison, will continue in the 
same line of policy under which it has been begun.’ 

^^My father, much astonished, nodued slightly, wondering what was 
to come next, and Mr. Webster went on : ^ Mr. President, it was our 
custom in the Cabinet meetings of the deceased President that the 
President should preside over them. All measures whatever relating 
to the administration were obliged to be brought before the Cabinet, 
and their settlement was decided by the majority, each member of the 
Cabinet and the President having but one vote.’ 

^^My father was always courteous, but he was also firm, and in 


418 


A TALK WITH A PRESIDENT'S SON. 


responding to this exhibition of adamantine cheek he rose and spoke 
substantially as follows : ^ I beg your pardon, gentlemen, I am very 
glad to have in my Cabinet such able statesmen as you have proved 
yourselves to be. And I shall be pleased to avail myself of your 
counsel and advice. But I can never consent to being dictated to as to 
what I shall or shall not do. I, as President, shall be responsible for 
my administration. I hope to have your hearty co-operation in carry- 
ing out its measures. So long as you see fit to do this", I shall be glad 
to have you with me. When you think otherwise, your resignations 
will be accepted.^ ” 

In response to a question as to how John C. Calhoun happened to 
become a member of President Tyler’s Cabinet, General Tyler said, It 
was not my father’s choice. He was compelled to do it, and Henry A. 
Wise, of Virginia, was the cause. There was no action during my 
father’s administration which he regretted more than this. Through it 
his treaty for the annexation of Texas fell through, and had it not been 
for Wise and Calhoun the war with Mexico would probably never have 
occurred. 

At the time of Mr. Upshur’s death — Upshur was, you know, my 
father’s Secretary of State, and he was blown up by the explosion on 
board the Princeton — the treaty for the annexation of Texas was all 
complete, and ready for signature. Such arrangements had been made 
with various Senators that they were sure to be confirmed ; and Tom 
Benton, who was the chief opposing element, had been placated by my 
father’s giving his son-in-law John C. Fremont the command of 
the exploring expedition to the West over the heads of older men. 
Senator Benton could be flattered as easily as any man who ever entered 
the United States Senate-chamber. He had consented to espouse the 
cause of annexation, and it was thought that the treaty was altogether 
arranged. Father had even sent Governor Wilson Shannon of Ohio 
to Mexico as his ambassador, with instructions as to how to proceed, 
and our understanding with Mexico was such that we did not doubt 
that the treaties would be accepted at once. They w^ere so drawn as to 
give us all of Texas without great expense, and at the same time the 
whole of the valuable harbor at San Francisco. 

England w^as treating with Mexico for Texas at the same time, 
and the State w as apparently ready to drop into her hands. You can 
imagine how happy my father w^as at the prospect of the annexation. 
Mr. Upshur was also very proud of the treaty. The night before he 
died he had copied it all in his owm handwriting, and had left it on the 
table ready to. be signed and confirmed the next day. But the explo- 
sion of the Princeton threw everything into confusion, and Calhoun’s 
appointment as Secretary of State made Tom Benton so angry that 
he threw all his weight against the treaty and thus prevented its 
confirmation. 

Now let me tell you how Calhoun got that appointment. Our 
friends in Congress w^ere headed by Henry A. Wise, of Virginia. We 
had not a very large force in the tw^o Houses. It w^as, in fact, known 
as ^ the corporal’s guard.’ Henry A. Wise, their leader, was a good 
fellow, and he had many pleasant qualities. He was a man of great 


A TALK WITH A PRESIDENT'S SON 


419 


ability, but the very devil as an adviser. On the day of Upshur’s 
death, without any consultation with my father, he went to MacDuffie, 
the leading Senator from South Carolina, and instructed him to write 
to John C. Calhoun to come at President Tyler’s request and accept 
the portfolio of State. 

On the following day Mr. Wise came to the White House and 
told the President what he had done. He said the letter had been sent, 
and that it conld not be withdrawn. President Tyler was thunder- 
struck. He gripped his chair with all his force. It was all he could 
do to resist telling Wise to begone from him forever. Before saying a 
word he got up and walked across the floor, and then came back in 
front of Mr. Wise, and, looking him sternly in the eye, said, ^Mr. 
Wise, you certainly have not done this thing !’ 

‘^Mr. Wise quailed, but said nothing. Father then walked to the 
other side of the room again, and, returning, exclaimed emphatically, 
^ Mr. Wise, you cannot have done this thing !’ And, as Mr. Wise still 
said nothing, he exclaimed in rage, ^ Wise, have you done this thing?’ 

It was all my father could do to keep from telling him to go away 
and never to come into his sight. But Wise was his chief friend in 
Congress, and he did not dare to break with him. As it was, it was 
years before he felt well towards him, and he never really forgave him. 
But the letter had been sent, and it could not be withdrawn. Calhoun 
was appointed. The result was, as my father foresaw at the beginning, 
that Tom Benton raged around like a great bull, and Calhoun’s name 
had the effect of the red rag flaunted in his face. When the treaty 
came up he howled against it, and defeated it by calling it a Calhoun 
conspiracy. 

^^The annexation question was not, however, by any means 
dropped ; and it was through it that my father revenged himself 
upon both Clay and Van Buren. These two men, one of the Whig 
and the other of the old Democratic party, were both filled with the 
ambition to succeed President Tyler; and, though they had been 
enemies for several years, they all at once combined their forces to 
disparage my father’s administration and to prevent his renomination. 
Both of them feared him. Clay did not care to run as a candidate 
opposed to him, and Van Buren saw there was little hope of his get- 
ting the nomination if President Tyler after a successful administration 
should desire one. The result was, they both combined to beat Tyler. 
Martin Van Buren paid a visit to Mr. Clay at Ashland, and Henry 
Clay went up and spent several days with Van Buren at Kinderhook. 
Shortly after this two letters appeared in the Washington papers 
strikingly similar in tone, and both opposed to the annexation of 
Texas. Clay’s letter came out in the National Intelligencer, and Van 
Buren’s in the Globe, and both on the same day. During my father’s 
administration these men thwarted his designs at every opportunity, 
leaving no stone unturned to make him unpopular. 

Father’s political sagacity told him that no man who opposed the 
annexation of Texas could be elected President, and he rejoiced at 
their both coming out against it because he was so strongly favoring 
it. After the death of Mr. Upshur and the defeat of the treaty the 


420 


A TALK WITH A PRESIDENT'S SON, 


work for annexation still went on, but it was in secret. England's 
position in the mean while became more threatening, and Andrew 
Jackson grew anxious to have Texas annexed. He privately wrote 
letter after letter to my father iii regard to it, and at the same time 
urged continuously two Tennessee Representatives, Messrs. A. V. 
Brown and Cave Johnson, to do all they could to influence the Presi- 
dent in that direction. Father was anxious that Andrew Jackson 
should come out publicly in favor of annexation, as his name was 
still a power in the land and such an action w^ould militate against any 
man who favored it. Jackson’s Congressional friends, however, knew 
nothing of the negotiation then going on, nor did they know that the 
President was in personal communication with Andrew Jackson. 
They would bring Jackson’s private letters to them to President Tyler 
and read them to him. 

At last one day father said, ‘ I am inclined to do as Mr. Jackson 
desires ; but these letters are private. If I do this I must have a let- 
ter from Andrew Jackson of which the publication is authorized.’ Tlie 
two Congressmen w^ent away highly elated. They wrote to Jackson 
and procured the letter. They then came with it to the White House. 
Father told them to have it published and bring the paper to him, and 
that he would give his answer. The following day it appeared in the 
Globe over Andrew Jackson’s signature, and that afternoon Messrs. 
Brown and Johnson came to the White House, walking as if on air, 
with the paper in their hands. When they showed it to the President 
he coolly rq3lied, — 

‘ Gentlemen, I have to inform you that such negotiations as you 
ask have been pending for several months, and that they are now about 
completed.’ You can imagine the tableau. The airy look faded out 
of the faces of Johnson and Brown, and they walked away weighing 
several pounds more than when they had come in. 

^^So father obtained Jackson’s declaration against Van Buren. 
This was, however, very near the date of the nominating conventions, 
and he found upon looking over the field that Van Buren had already 
a majority of the delegates. If Jackson would declare in favor of the 
two- thirds rule the spirit of the party was such that it would take two- 
thirds of the convention to secure a nomination. Father then sends 
Robert J. Walker to the Hermitage to get Jackson to declare for the 
two-thirds rule. Jackson so comes out, and he advises his friends 
among the delegates to insist upon this. 

^^Notwithstanding all this, father still feared that Van Buren 
might yet be nominated, and to make surety sure he decided to enter 
the race himself and thus divide Van Buren’s strength, intending in 
case he should get the nomination to resign in favor of some one else 
than Van Buren. 

President Tyler never had any idea of being a bona fide candidate 
for a renomination. I can say this emphatically ; for I remember well 
the day he first mentioned the subject to his family. This was the 
first time he had spoken of it to any one. It was one morning at 
breakfast, when only the family was present. Father told us he in- 
tended to be a candidate for another term as President, and he told us 


BALLADE OF THE ARCADIAN IN BUSINESS. 421 

why he had concluded to do so. He said it was solely to defeat Van 
Buren, and that he intended to resign if he got the nomination. Soon 
after this he caused a convention to be called at Baltimore at the same 
time as that of the Democratic convention. There were seventeen or 
eighteen hundred at this Tyler convention, and it renominated my 
father. President TylePs friends stuck to him well, and they suc- 
ceeded in adopting the two-thirds rule, and tlirough it Van Buren was 
defeated and James K. Polk was nominated. My father, having now 
accomplished his end, resigned. It was no ordinary man who could, 
with only a corporaFs guard to help him, crush two such men as 
Martin Van Buren and Henry Clay.^^ 

Frank Q, Carpenter, 


BALLADE OF THE ARCADIAN IN BUSINESS. 

I N streets, amid the city signs, — 

Jewels, To Let, Tobacco, Coal, 

Where Law abuts on Ales and Wines, 

And where the fleet expresses roll, — 

In ways below the wiry pole. 

Through alleys bare of bud or tree, 

On trade-winds, — will his shepherd soul 
Float out to fluting Arcady ? 

Some twitter in the civic vines ; 

A watered sprig about a mole ; 

A beggar’s ballad ere he whines 
For comfort of the flowing bowl, — 

These ; or some river-crossing toll, 

Suburban, rung where meadows be ; 

These, with him, over money’s shoal. 

Float out to fluting Arcady ! 

His entries ever run to lines,” 

As sheepskin” leMs to shady knoll 
In wool” his subtle sense divines 
The bleat, the pipe, the oaken bole. 

Ah, Pan in Mammon’s hard control, 

Would pastor ways be sweet to thee? 

First live thy life, then, spirit-whole. 

Float out to fluting Arcady ! 

ENVOI. 

But hearken, Bunners at the goal. 

Who give no heed to Beauty’s plea ! — 

Not all who baffle dust and dole 
Float out to fluting Arcady ! 


Harrison S, Morris. 


422 


OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP. 


OUE MONTHLY GOSSIP 

WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS. 


[The Monthly Gossip will henceforth be an editorial department in which information 
will be volunteered upon any literary, scientific, or miscellaneous topic of general interest, 
and queries on such topics will be answered. Queries from all sources are invited, and 
every effort will be made to answer them fully and entertainingly. But it is requested that 
correspondents will refrain from sending queries to which sufficient answers may be found in 
such familiar books of reference as Brewer’s Reader’s Handbook,” Brewer’s Phrase and 
Fable,” Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations,” Wheeler’s Noted Names of Fiction,” Lippincott’s 
Biographical Dictionary,” Chambers’s and other Encyclopaedias, Classical Dictionaries, etc. 
All queries received before the 26th of February will be answered in the April number, and 
so on.] 

What is the secret of poetry? What is the nameless power that resides in 
certain combinations of words, so that, though they express nothing new or deep 
or striking, they eat into the memory with phosphoric eagerness? Gray’s 
Elegy,” for instance, has been called a mosaic of quotations, but no one has yet 
discovered the recipe for producing another mosaic of the same kind. Cowper’s 
Wreck of the Eoyal George” is a mere string of commonplaces. “ Given an 
ordinary newspaper paragraph about wreck or battle,” says Leslie Stephen, 
turn it into the simplest possible language, do not introduce a single metaphor 
or figure of speech, indulge in none but the most obvious of all reflections, — as, 
for example, that when a man is once drowned he won’t win any more battles, — 
and produce as the result a copy of verses which nobody can ever read without 
instantly knowing them by heart. How Cowper managed to perform such a 
feat, and why not one poet even in a hundred can perform it, are questions 
which might lead to some curious critical speculation.” Longfellow has per- 
formed the same feat over and over again. There are poems of his which once 
read become for ever after a portion of your best and truest self. Yet you would 
be at a loss to defend them against the logic or the satire of the Philistine. 
Take The Psalm of Life” as an instance. There is not an original thought in 
it. The most striking expressions are plagiarisms ; the rest are commonplaces. 

Art is long and time is fleeting” is a paraphrase of Horace’s Ars longa, vita 
brevis est. The comparison of the heart to a muflled drum is to be found in the 
Bishop of Chichester’s poem on the death of his wife, etc. Furthermore, there 
is an extraordinary confusion of metaphors. Here is how a critic in the Saturday 
Review once exposed this confusion. ‘‘ The Psalm of Life, if there be any mean- 
ing in the English language, is gibberish. Let us analyze two of the verses : 

Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime, 

And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time ; 

Footprints that perhaps another, 

Sailing o’er life’s solemn main, 

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 

Seeing, shall take heart again. 


OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP. 


423 


“ Even if one can conceive of life as a ‘solemn main/ bordered by tbe ‘sands 
of time/ how can the mariners on the main leave their footprints on the sands ? 
And what possible comfort can footprints on the sands be to a shipwrecked brother 
who, despite his shipwreck, still keeps persistently sailing o^er lifers solemn main? 
The brother must have very sharp eyes if he could see footprints on the sand from 
his raft, for his ship is supposed to have been wrecked long ago. . Perhaps Mr. 
Longfellow was thinking of the footstep which Kobinson Crusoe found on the 
sand of his desert island. But Eobinson was not sailing when he detected that 
isolated phenomenon; nor, when he saw it, did he ‘take heart again.^” You 
canft but agree with every word of this criticism. Yet you go back to the poem 
and find that it has lost none of its power to charm and to comfort. 

If five people of healthy critical judgment were asked to select from Byron 
the most striking and magnificent passage, probably three of them would choose 
the “ Address to the Ocean^’ in “ Childe Harold.^^ The Address is as vulnerable 
as anything in Longfellow. No less a person than Christopher North once fell 
foul of it and danced upon its prostrate corpse with ghoulish glee. The whole 
criticism is too long to quote, but here is how the first stanza is treated : 

** Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue ocean, roll V* 

says the critic, “is spirited and sonorous— and that is well — but it is nothing more 
— and the initial line should have been a nobler burst. ‘ Deep and dark-blue’ 
are epithets that can neither be much praised nor blamed — to our mind they had 
been better away — for the images they suggest, if not in dissonance — are not in 
consonance with the thoughts that follow them — and seem not to suggest them 
but to stand by themselves as silent images — or rather forms of speech. 

** Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain. 

In vain? That is — without injuring thee? But they were not seeking to do so 
— -nor can imagination conceive how they could — and if that be not the poet’s 
meaning, what is it? Ten thousand fleets sweeping over the deep, dark-blue 
ocean it may not be easy to picture to oneself— but he who can will have glorious 
conception of the power of man on the amplitude of the sea. The poet’s mean- 
ing now becomes less obscure — and he says well, ‘ man marks the earth with 
ruin,’ but not well, ‘his control stops with the shore.’ That is prosaic — and 
does not tell. How could he mark the sea with ruin? There is nothing there to 
ruin — and there can be no contrast. 

Upon the watery plain 

The wrecks are all thy deeds. 

Call you that poetry? With the ocean personified before his own eyes, by his 
own soul, he yet speaks of his deeds on ‘ the watery plaini To a poet inspired 
that had been impossible — ^but ‘ the vision and the faculty divine’ were not with 
him — and he was merely inditing verses. 

Nor doth remain 

A shadow of man’s ravage save his own, 

is hard to scan, and full of confusion. To extricate any meaning from the words 
you must alter them, but ’tis hardly worth the pains. You frown — tell us then 
what you understand by ‘ shadow of man’s ravage save his own’ ? 


424 


OVR MONTHLY GOSSIP. 


Like a drop of rain 
He sinks into thy depths, 

to please you, we shall say is good — though we hardly think so — for wrecks on 
wrecks are shown to our imagination, and thousands of creatures perish — ‘ man’ 
here means men — if not, how unimpassioned the tale of his doom — but * a drop 
of rain’ — one single drop — was never yet seen by itself sinking into the depths 
of the sea — and further be assured by us, oh neophyte I with Byron in tliy breast, 
that ‘with bubbling groan’ ought not to be there, for a drop of rain melts 
silently in a moment, and since it is said that ‘ like a drop of rain he sinks,’ 
erase the words from your copy, and for rhyme have reason. 

Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. 

What ! do we find fault with that line? Yes — erase it. The poet is not singing 
a lament for sailors drowned at sea. He is singing the sea’s wrath to man. The 
sea bids the ship go down — and down she goes — he wastes no thought on the 
crew nor on their wives and sweethearts. What can it possibly be to him that 
they sink ‘ without a grave, unknelled, uncofiined, and unknown’ ? 

“ But to cut the matter short — or to take the bull by the horns — the line as it 
stands, viewing it as an expression of human sympathy and sorrow in the poet’s 
heart, forgetting the sea in the sailors, is an ambitious failure. ’Tis a cold 
accumulation of melancholy circumstances which were all inevitable — of which 
the opposites were impossible — debarred by nature and fate. There is no pathos 
in it — ‘not a bit.’ It is absurd, it is ludicrous — yes, it makes us laugh — 
though rather than laugh at misery, human or brute, we would choose to pass 
all our life in the Cave of Trophonius. ‘ Without a grave’ — who was to dig 
it? Show us sexton, spade, sod. As on the dry land no man ever yet was 
drowned — so at sea no man ever yet was buried but in the Tvater — that is first — 
till the sea perhaps stamps him into the sand. Notwithstanding all that, all 
men speak of the sailor’s grave — though, were they to ask themselves what they 
meant, they would probably answer — fish. ‘ Uncoffined’ — why, the carpenter had 
other work during all this stormy home-hound voyage than to get coffins for the 
crew. The last thing he did was to cut away her masts. But she was water- 
logged, and would not right — blew up without powder which by that time was 
mire — and then was sucked into the jaws of the Old One — like Jonah into the 
wffiale’s be lly. Uncoffined, indeed I Why, the whole four hundred men were in 
bluejackets — most of them sober enough in all conscience — but not a few drunk 
as blazes— some capering about stark mad — and one delirious Jacky Tar dancing 
a hornpipe on the quarter-deck, maugre the remonstrances of the chaplain. 
‘ Unknelled’ — who was to toll the bell ? Davy Jones, — and he did toll it — the 
ship’s bell — a very Paganini ringing a full peal on its single self — and with most 
miraculous organ multiplying triple-bobs and bob-majors — in mockery of the 
funeral — as if it were a marriage — and strange must it have been to the ears of 
the more tenacious of life and timber among the sinking crew to hear below all 
that booming, and above it the well-known music from the steeples in both towns 
— both Devonport and Plymouth — welcoming the old frigate back again to the 
quiet Tamar.” 

Pope excelled in satire. Of all his satirical portraits the most terrible is 
that he has drawn of Addison. De Quincey has pointed out that the whole 
passage rests upon a blunder, “ and the blunder is so broad and palpable that it 


OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP. 


425 


implies instant forgetfulness, both in the writer and the reader. The idea which 
furnishes the basis of the passage is this : that the conduct ascribed to Addison 
is in its own nature so despicable as to extort laughter by its primary impulse, 
but that this laughter changes into weeping when we come to understand that 
the person concerned in this delinquency is Addison. The change, the transfig- 
uration, in our mood of contemplating the offence, is charged upon the discovery 
which we are supposed to make as to the person of the offender; that which by 
its baseness had been simply comic when imputed to some corresponding author 
passes into a tragic coup-de-thmtre when it is suddenly traced back to a man of 
original genius. The whole, therefore, of this effect is made to depend upon the 
sudden scenical transition from a supposed petty criminal to one of high distinc- 
tion. And meantime no such stage effect had been possible, since the knowledge 
that a man of genius was the offender had been what we started with from the 
•beginning. ‘ Our laughter is changed to tears,’ says Pope, ^ as soon as we discover 
that the base act had a noble author.’ And, behold I the initial feature in the 
whole description of the case is that the libeller was one whom ‘true genius 
fired :’ 


Peace to all such : But were there one whose mind 
True genius fires, etc. 


Before the offence is described, the perpetrator is already characterized as a man 
of genius ; and, in spite of that knowledge, we laugh. But suddenly our mood 
changes, and we weep; but why, I beseech you? Simply because we have 
ascertained the author to be a man of genius. 


Who would not laugh, if such a man there be ? 

Who would not weep, if Atticus were he V* 

Most cultivated persons, if they were asked what is the greatest poem in 
modern literature, would unhesitatingly answer, “ Hamlet.” But Voltaire called 
“ Hamlet” the work of a drunken savage, Goldsmith exposed the absurdity of 
its most famous speech, “ To be, or not to be,” and Sardou has recently called the 
drama idiotic. Hamlet, says Sardou, is an empty wind-bag hero, whom Shake- 
speare has clothed in a dramatic fog, and whom the German critics have stuffed 
with all their cloudy concepts, with all their uncertain dissertations, with all the 
smoke in their pipes, with all the besotted obscurity of their beer-cellars. The 
Ghost is simply ridiculous. He appears to everybody save his wife. Why is he 
visible to Horatio, to Bernardo, to a lot of indifferent people, and never to the 
wife who murdered him ? What a comic scene is that of the oath ! Horatio 
and Marcellus swear never to reveal what they have seen. Why doesn’t Bernardo 
swear too? Or, rather, what is the use of any one swearing? The doting old 
ghost has forgotten his posthumous visits to the sentinels of the castle. “As to 
the philosophy, I find it no better than the plot. People go into ecstasies over 
the famous soliloquy ‘ To be or not to be.’ I cannot myself know if our souls 
are annihilated after death or not. But if any one is well informed upon that 
point, it is Hamlet, who talks every day with his defunct father. I declare, and 
I repeat, that there is nothing good in the play, in my opinion, except the scene 
with the actors, the idea of causing to be played before the king and queen a 
murder similar to that which they had committed, in order to surprise their secret. 
As to the duel at the end, and the exchange of foils which brings about the 
catastrophe, the weakest playwright of to-day would not dare to employ such a 
method to end his piece.” 


426 


OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP. 


Well, well I We know that Jeffrey thought “ The Excursion’^ wouldn’t do, 
and doubted of ** Wilhelm Meister.” We know that Coleridge denounced ‘‘ Faust.” 
We know that Scott’s novels have been called pantomimes, and Dickens’s pot- 
house pleasantries, that high critical authority has spoken of Ruskin’s “ Modern 
Painters” as declamatory trash, of Pope’s Essay on Criticism” as a pert, insipid 
piece of commonplace, of Shelley’s Prometheus Unbound” as drivelling prose 
run mad, of Keats’s “ Endymion” as gratuitous nonsense, of Tennyson’s “ In 
Memoriam” as meaningless. 

Perhaps Hamlet” may survive the strictures of M. Sardou. 

Editor Our Monthly Gossip, — In your article on the Doppelganger 
legend in the January number I notice a reference to a Spanish play called ‘‘ El 
Embozado.” Mr. Stoddard in his Life of Poe speaks of the same play. Such a 
drama may exist, though I very much doubt it, but unquestionably the reference 
in Byron’s letter is to Calderon’s “ Purgatory of St. Patrick.” Shelley was en- 
gaged upon Calderon, had translated parts of the Wonder-Working Magician,” 
and nothing is more likely than that he was attracted by the Purgatory,” which 
is Calderon’s greatest auto. The bad hero of the piece goes through the adven- 
tures as recited in your article. The Doppelganger idea is elaborated by Calderon 
from the prose legend, in which, instead of a masked figure following the hero, 
there comes to him at every crisis of his fate, falling from space unto his feet, a 
bit of folded paper on which he finds inscribed his own name. 

The Spanish poet Gongora has a ballad in which the legend in question is 
thrillingly embodied. A young man is hurrying to a rendezvous with a nun, when 
he hears an outcry and tumult in the street. He withdraws into an archway, 
when a man flies past him pursued by others. Almost at his feet the pursued one 
is stabbed to death by many swords. The murderers fly, and there enters a pro- 
cession of priests, who take up the dead body and bear it into a neighboring 
church. The young man follows, fascinated. The church is lighted up. Mass 
is said and requiems chanted for the dead. At last the young man approaches 
near enough to see the corpse. It is himself I L. M. 

Editor Our Monthly Gossip, — I read about the genesis of Dr. Jekyll 
and Mr. Hyde” in the January Lippincotty and I am going to give you a small 
clipping from my note-book as presumably hinging on the same subject. In 
one of Hawthorne’s Note-Books” occurs this suggestion for an intended story : 
“ A man living a wicked life in one place, and simultaneously a virtuous and 
religious life in another.” I was struck with this, because I had just read 
Stevenson’s book, and I made a note on’t.” 

Now, I have a simple little question to ask the Gossip.” In his essay on 
Addison, Macaulay says, Of Blackmore’s attainments in the ancient tongues 
it may be sufficient to say that, in his prose, he has confounded an aphorism 
with an apophthegm,” etc. I asked my teacher (for I am only a school-boy) 
what the real difference was between an aphorism and an apophthegm, but he 
couldn’t tell. He said Macaulay was over-critical. Now, was he? and can you 
tell the difference? J, W, Smith, 

According to Crabb’s ‘‘English Synonymes,” an aphorism differs from an 
apophthegm in that the latter, like the English saying, carries the mind back to 
the person speaking, and derives its value as much from the person who utters it 
as from the thing uttered. But the distinction is rarely observed. 


BOOK-TALK. 


427 


THE ONE HUNDRED PRIZE QUESTIONS. 

The series of questions for the best and fullest solutions to which prizes 
amounting to one hundred and seventy-five dollars were offered in our February 
number is continued in the following twenty questions : 

21. Who was the giant Hickafric or Hickathrift? 

22. Who was the Queen Pomare celebrated in French literature ? 

23. What famous general is said to have been suckled by swine? 

21. Who was the king of Yvetot (le roi d’Yvetot) ? 

25. When was the Great Wall of China built? 

26. What is the origin of the phrase Who breaks — pays’^ ? 

27. What is a tinkers dam ? 

28. Whence the expression Comparisons are odious’^ ? 

29. Who was Soapy Sam ? 

30. When and where did visiting-cards originate ? 

31. Whence the proverb There’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip” ? 

32. Whence arose the superstition that there is luck in a horse-shoe ? 

33. Who was Peter Schlemihl, and did he have any prototype in real life or 
in legend? 

34. Who was the probable original of Sam Weller? 

35. What bridge does Hood celebrate as the Bridge of Sighs ? 

36. Whence the expression “ to take the cake” ? 

37. What is the London Stone? 

38. Whence the expression where the shoe pinches” ? 

39. Who is said to have been the original of Thackeray’s Blanche Amory? 

40. What is a bezant, and what ceremony is associated with it? 


BOOK-TALK. 


T he world, it is agreed, knows nothing of its greatest men. Is it equally 
ignorant of its best literature? We know that Shakespeare, Milton, and 
Bunyan had sunk almost into oblivion when a lucky chance rediscovered them. 
We know that the good old chivalrous ballads of England, ballads and songs 
unsurpassed in the popular poetry of any country, had been forgotten by all save 
the very learned or the very curious when Percy’s “ Eeliques” rescued them for 
immortality. We know that the history of foreign literatures is fiill of similar 
narrow escapes. We wonder, therefore, what unknown masterpieces may lie 
hidden in the wrack of the past. Every now and then in these adventurous 
days a diver comes up to the surface with a pearl, — a single sample of the treas- 
ures that may be buried below. It is but a short time since William Blake 
was restored to literature. Only thirty years ago Charles Kingsley sought a place 
in modern fiction for the forgotten ‘^Fool of Quality.” Only twelve years ago 
Swinburne conquered a place in modern poetry for that splendid work of genius 
Joseph and his Brethren,” which had not even been forgotten, for it had never 
been known. A London publisher in 1882 brought out an edition of those mas- 
terpieces of fun and sarcasm, the novels of Thomas Love Peacock, — an author 


428 


BOOK-TALK. 


whose peculiar fate it has been to be periodically forgotten and periodically re- 
discovered. And now comes a Philadelphia publisher, Mr. David McKay, with 
a new edition of the novels of Charles Brockden Brown, which have been out of 
print since 1857. 

You approach these books with a certain reverence. Unless your studies in 
early American literature have been very meagre, you know that Brown has 
been called the Father of American fiction, that Hawthorne is said to have 
derived inspiration from him, that he wrote romances to which the epithets of 
‘^thrilling,” powerful, ‘‘morbid,’’ “gloomy,” have been freely applied by 
critics, that his description of the yellow fever in Philadelphia was once a classic 
and is still included in anthologies of American prose. The publisher, in his 
circular, jogs your memory a little further, and reminds you that Brown’s novels, 
“Faust,” and “The Bobbers” were the books which took the deepest hold on 
Shelley’s mind and had the strongest influence in the formation of his character, 
that the Encyclopaedia Britannica calls Brown the precursor and only Ameri- 
can rival of Hawthorne, that Prescott, Higginson, and Whipple have praised 
his novels, that Prof. Moses Coit Tyler says, “ Their intrinsic merit is so great, 
and their historic place in our literature is so interesting, that it would be a very 
creditable and perhaps even a distinguished thing for an American publisher to 
reproduce them.” Well, it is a distinguished thing. Brown’s novels have long 
been out of print. A complete set is an absolute necessity in any library which 
professes to be fairly representative of American literature, just as a Cimabue is 
necessary to the completeness of any collection of Italian paintings. But it is 
more for their historic place than for their intrinsic merit that the novels are 
valuable. To appreciate their merit you must throw yourself back into the age 
when they were written and understand the novelist’s position and environment. 
The only man of artistic genius in a chaotic and unformed society, he was like 
Cimabue in Florence. Transport yourself into the thirteenth century when you 
gaze at those uncouth Madonnas of Cimabue, and you gain some insight into the 
noble spirit that produced them. So with Brockden Brown and his novels. Let 
us take “ Wieland, or the Transformation,” as an example. This was his first 
romance, — indeed, the first romance ever issued in America. The heroine tells 
the story. Her father, a man of morbid religious views, dies in a mysterious 
— nay, marvellous — manner which is never fully explained. The predisposition 
to insanity which her brother Wieland inherits from him long remains latent. 
But a stranger named Carwin appears on the scene. It afterwards turns out he 
is a ventriloquist. Mysterious voices and warnings are heard. The heroine’s 
lover thinks he overhears her in wicked conversation with a murderer. Com- 
plications of all sorts ensue. The ventriloquist — who has been merely consult- 
ing his own amusement and love of power — disappears. But the past events 
have unhinged Wieland’s brain. In obedience to a fancied voice from heiaven, 
he murders his wife and children. He is acquitted on the ground of insanity. 
The same voice drives him to attack his sister, who is rescued by the now repent- 
ant Carwin. Then Wieland kills himself. Carwin retires to remorseful solitude. 
Tte heroine marries her lover.* The horrors of the tale are lightened by this 
delightful moral at the close: “That virtue should become the victim of 
treachery is, no doubt, a mournful consideration ; but it will not escape your 
notice that the evils of which Carwin was the author owed their existence to the 
errors of the sufferers. ... If Wieland had framed juster notions of moral duties 


BOOK-TALK, 


429 


and of the divine attributes, or if I had been gifted with ordinary equanimity or 
foresight, the double-tongued deceiver would have been baffled and repelled.” 
The naive simplicity which this moral betrays runs through the whole book. It 
is the same simplicity that looks out upon you from the solemn depths of the 
grotesque eyes which Cimabue has given to his Madonnas. You have to make 
believe a great deal in order to take the author as seriously as he takes himself. 
Grant that ventriloquial powers can be developed to the marvellous extent here 
represented, that a number of people could be deceived into accepting the man- 
ifestations as superhuman, that startling coincidences can occur as frequently as 
they do here, — grant all these premises, and you may begin to see that the book 
is not only “ gloomy” and morbid,” but powerful” and thrilling” also. The 
author has what critics call great imaginative insight, — that is to say, the passions 
and emotions of impossible people in impossible situations are intensely felt by 
him and vividly described. He excels in morbid pathology. There is a predic- 
tion of Hawthorne here, — as of Eaphael in Cimabue. Wieland is an impressive 
figure, and the heroine, despite her prolixity, succeeds in describing her sensations 
under the various calamities that oppress her with harrowing energy. 

It is not fair to judge Brockden Brown by ^‘Wieland” alone. ‘^Arthur 
Mervyn” is, on the whole, his masterpiece, though Edgar Huntly” also occupies 
a high place and is interesting as anticipating Cooper and Chateaubriand in 
turning the Red Man to literary account, while Ormond” contains his best 
female character, — the patient, long-suffering Clara Dudley, a character which 
fascinated Shelley above all the fair ladies of fiction. The sub-title of “ Arthur 
Mervyn” is Memoirs of the Year 1793,” — the year, it will be remembered, in 
which the yellow fever ravaged Philadelphia. The horrors of the pestilence, 
which are admirably described, form a dismal background to a very dismal story. 
Again the plot, though exciting and interesting, is full of startling improbabilities. 
The unexpected is continually happening, — which you can tolerate in real life, 
but not in fiction. The style is less verbose and turgid than in Wieland.” The 
characters are more human and life-like. The relations between the hero and his 
employer Welbeck are drawn with an evident reminiscence of Caleb Williams 
and Falkland, and the character of Welbeck in many particulars resembles that 
of Falkland (“ Caleb Williams,” by the way, was published in 1794, and Arthur 
Mervyn” six years later). But there is no slavishness of imitation. Brown’s 
genius was as potent a magician as Godwin’s. 

Mr. McKay has done a good work. Let us trust that other treasure-trove may 
be rescued from the past. Each of us, no doubt, has a pet book that we should be 
glad to see more widely known and appreciated. The Reviewer confesses to two 
especial favorites. First, the poems of J. C. Mangan, a true genius, whose in- 
fluence is unmistakable in the poetical work of Edgar Allan Poe, a smaller man, 
though infinitely better known. Mangan’s poems are largely translations from 
the German, or not so much translations as paraphrases, some of them so free as 
to be really original. He had too true an instinct to attempt any serious liberties 
with Goethe or Schiller, but his versions from the lesser poets, as for instance 
Riickert’s Ride around the Parapet,” Freiligrath’s “ White Lady,” Zedlitz’s 
Napoleon’s Midnight Review,” are often entirely new poems, new in metre, in 
manner, almost in subject, deriving only the skeleton idea from the original, and 
improving greatly on the original. His translations from the ancient Irish 


430 


BOOK-TALK. 


and the Persian — including such gems as “ Karaman,” The Dark Kosaleen/’ 
and ^‘Sailing down the Bosphorus” — may probably be included in the same 
category, though the Reviewer has not had the advantage of examining the 
originals. And as to one poem which is avowedly original and autobiographical, 
— “ The Nameless One,” — the Reviewer would think little of the man who could 
read unmoved that cry of agony from a prostrate soul. Not Realfs verses before 
his suicide, not William Winter’s ‘‘Orgia,” are more potent and searching. 
(Why, en passant, does not somebody collect Realfs poems into a volume?) The 
Reviewer’s other love is “ The History of John De Castro,” a novel published 
about 1815, whose authorship he has never been able to determine, but which 
seems to him a masterpiece of broad, hearty. Rabelaisian humor, the only 
successful thing of the sort in English. That such a book should have excited 
no special comment on its first appearance, that it should not have passed into 
literature, that it should be absolutely unknown at the present day, — all these are 
problems which the Reviewer finds himself at a loss to solve. 

Other books received are the following: From Guppies & Hurd, three 
novels translated from the German, “The Last Von Reckenburg,” translated by 
J. M. Percival, “ The Angel of the Village,” by L. M. Ohorn, translated by Mrs. 
Matthews, and “The Monk’s Wedding,” by Conrad Ferdinand Meyer, translated 
by S. H. Adams, all of them good in their way, and the last exceptionally strong 
and powerful; “Letters from Colorado,” by H. L. Wason, a number of legends 
of Western life versified rather cleverly; “Bledisloe, or Aunt Pen’s American 
Nieces,” an international story, agreeably told by Ada M. Trotter; “Old New- 
England Days,” by Sophie M. Damon, a pleasant story of rural New-England 
life a generation or two ago ; “ Zorah,” by Elisabeth Balch, a story of modern 
Egypt, full of passion and incident. From the Excelsior Publishing House, 
two useful hand-books, “ The Rules of Order governing Public Meetings,” a guide 
to methods of public discussion and action, with official forms and practices, and 
a new edition of “The Standard Hoyle,” with important additions. From 
Thomas Whittaker, “A Village Maid,” by Helen Hays, a quiet and readable 
sketch of rural life. From Cushings & Bailey, “Memorials of a Southern 
Planter,” by Susan Dabney Smedes, a series of papers left by a genuine type of 
the nobler sort of ante-bellum planters and slave-owners, Thomas Gregory Smith 
Dabney, edited with filial care by his daughter. From Henry Holt, “Southern 
Silhouettes,” by Jeannette H. Walworth, a series of bright and vivid sketches 
of modern life in the South, which form an agreeable companion to the last- 
named volume. From E. Stanley Hart & Co., “ Songs of New Sweden,” by 
Arthur Peterson, U.S.N., a young poet whose better work shows genuine inspira- 
tion, but who is not always seen at his best. From Funk & Wagnalls, “The 
Missing Sense, and the Hidden Things which it might Reveal,” by C. W. Wool- 
bridge, a futile but ingenious attempt “ to treat Spiritual Philosophy on a rational 
basis ;” “ Flag on the Mill,” by Mary B. Sleight ; “ Paradise,” by Lloyd S. Brice, 
a novel whose aim appears to be mainly satirical ; “ A Bundle of Letters to Busy 
Girls on Practical Matters,” by Grace H. Dodge, which even very idle girls should 
spare the time to read ; “ Gunethics, or the Ethical Status of Women,” by Rev. 
W. K. Brown, as affected and stilted as its title. From Benjamin & Bell, “ Sea 
Spray, or Facts and Fancies of a Yachtsman,” by S. G. W. Benjamin, a collection 
of pleasantly-written articles. From the author, “Songs and Song- Legends,” 
indifferent verses by Edward Lippitt Fales. 


CURRENT NOTES. 


431 


OUEEEI^T EOTES. 


If consumers prefer to buy an adulterated article of food because it can be 
had at a lower price, they undoubtedly have the right to do so, provided the adul- 
terants are not of a character injurious to health. If such articles are not falsely 
sold as pure and the customer is not deceived as to their real character, the trans- 
action is not illegitimate. 

But the great danger in the traffic in adulterated food arises from the decep- 
tion that is practised by manufacturers usually classing such goods as pure. This 
is almost invariably done when the adulterant is one that is injurious to health. 
For instance, manufacturers of alum and lime baking powders not only fail to 
inform the public of the real character of their goods, but carefully conceal the 
fact that they are made from these poisonous articles. Most of these manufac- 
turers also claim that their articles are pure and wholesome, while some go still 
further and proclaim boldly that they are cream of tartar goods, or even the 
genuine Royal Baking Powder itself. No consumer will buy alum baking pow- 
ders knowingly, for it is well understood that they are detrimental to health. 
The sale of lime and alum baking powders as pure and wholesome articles is, 
therefore, criminal, and it is satisfactory to notice that several persons engaged 
in such sale have already been brought to justice in the courts. 

The official analysts have recently been active in the pursuit of these dis- 
honest articles. The baking powders of several States have been carefully and 
critically examined. The officials are surprised at the large amount of lime and 
alum goods found. It is a suggestive fact that no baking powder except the 
Royal has been found without either lime or alum, and many contain both. 

The chief service of lime is to add weight. It is true that lime, when sub- 
jected to heat, gives off a certain amount of carbonic acid gas, but a quicklime 
is left, — a caustic of most powerful nature. A small quantity of dry lime upon 
the tongue, or in the eye, produces painful effects ; how much more serious 
must these effects be on the delicate membranes of the stomach, intestines, and 
kidneys, more particularly of infants and children, and especially when the lime 
is taken into the system day after day, and with almost every meal I This is said 
by physicians to be one of the causes of indigestion, dyspepsia, and those painful 
diseases of the kidneys now so prevalent. 

Adulteration with lime is quite as much to be dreaded as with alum, which 
has heretofore received the most emphatic condemnation from food-analysts, 
physicians, and chemists, for the reason that, while alum may be partially dis- 
solved by the heat of baking, it is impossible to destroy or change the nature of 
the lime, so that the entire amount in the baking powder passes, with all its 
injurious properties, into the stomach. 

Pure baking powders are one of the chief aids to the cook in preparing 
perfect and wholesome food. While those are to be obtained of well-established 
reputation, like the Royal, of whose purity there has never been a question, it 
is proper to avoid all others, 

VoL. XLI.— 28 


432 


CURRENT NOTES. 


The famous phrase “ No man is a hero to his valet-de-chamhre'^ has been 
attributed to Madame de Sevign6, and, on the authority of Mile. Aisse, to 
Madame Cornuel (Letters, p. 161, Paris, 1853), but Marshal Catinat (1637-1712) 
had already said, A man must be indeed a hero to appear such in the eyes of 
his valet,” La Bruy^re, “ Barely do great men appear great before their valets,” 
and Montaigne, ‘‘ Few men are admired by their servants” (Essays, III. 2). All 
these sayings were, however, anticipated by Antigonus I., King of Sparta, who 
when Hermodotus in his poems had described him as a god and son of Helios 
(the sun) observed, “ This will be news to my body-servant.” 

Horsford’s Acid Phosphate. — In Nervous, Mental, or Physical Ex- 
haustion. — Dr. N. S. Bead, Chandlersville, Illinois, says, “ It is of the highest 
value in mental and nervous exhaustion attended by such functional disturb- 
ances as sick headache, dyspepsia, diminished vitality, etc.” 

Peter Henderson & Co., the well-known market-gardeners of New York, 
send us their “ Manual of Everything for the Garden,” a large 8vo pamphlet, 
illustrated with three fine colored prints and a number of wood-cuts, and giving 
valuable information to the husbandman and the gardener, such as descriptions 
of vegetables, grasses, fruits, flowers, and new and rare plants, the prices of seeds, 
etc. The manual, together with specimens of seeds, will be forwarded to any 
address on receipt of twenty-five cents. 

The modern air-cushion was, it seems, anticipated by Ben Jonson. In 
^^The Alchemist” he makes Sir Epicure Mammon, in enumerating the pleasures 
to be his when in possession ^f the philosopher's stone, say, — 

I will liavc all my beds blown up, not stufifed ; 

Down is too hard. 

Those who copy letters have experienced the annoyance and inconvenience 
of copying in the old way by using a brush and water-cup. This is obviated by 
the use of the Hill Blotter Bath,” manufactured by the B. B. Hill Manufac- 
turing Company, 1020 New Market Street, Philadelphia, which insures perfect 
results in copying letters, bills, etc., whether written with pen or by the type- 
writing machine. Having been on trial for ten years, it has proved itself to be 
a device of merit, is coming into very general use, and is being freely endorsed 
by all classes of business-men. 

The Duke Humphrey with whom the dinnerless are facetiously said to dine 
was Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester (Henry V.^s brother), who was Protector 
during the minority of Henry VI. He was a great patron of literature and the 
arts, and famous for his hospitality. Fuller, in his “ Worthies,” tells us that the 
proverb hath altered the original meaning thereof, for first it signified aliend 
vivere quadrd, to eat by the bounty or feed by the favor of another man, for 
Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester (commonly called the good Duke), was so hos- 
pital that every man of fashion otherwise unprovided was welcome to dine with 
him. But after the death of the good Duke Humphrey (when many of his former 
almsmen were at a losse for a meahs meat) this proverb did alter its copy, to dine 
with Duke Humphrey importing to be dinnerless.” 

A more circumstantial explanation of the saying is that on the duke^s death 


CURRENT NOTES, 


433 


the report arose that his monument was to be erected in St. Paul’s. The report 
proved untrue. When a wag had no place to dine he would hang around the 
aisles of St. Paul’s, claiming to be looking for the monument of Duke Humphrey. 
This soon became known as dining with Duke Humphrey, and a monument 
(really that of Sir John Beauchamp) was pointed out as his, whom the dinner- 
less claimed as their patron. 

HoPwSFORd’s Acid Phosphate. — In Weakness of the Stomach. — Dr. D. P, 
McClure, Eantoul, Illinois, says, I have successfully used it in diseases arising 
from a weak condition of the digestive apparatus.” 

In’ early colonial days the best rum and tobacco came from Aux Cayes in 
San Domingo, and the best of anything came to be known as Aux Cayes, or O.K. 
In the Jackson campaign, when the general’s illiteracy was the stock-in-trade of 
his Whig opponents, an endorsement he had made, This is O.K.,” was taken up 
by the humorist Seba Smith Major Jack Downing”) and declared to be an 
abbreviation of the general’s customary endorsement of papers as Oil Krect.” 
Instead of denying the story, the Democrats adopted the letters as a sort of party 
cry, and fastened them on their banners. 

Dreer’s Garden Calendar for 1888, a Guide to the Successful Management 
of the Flower and Kitchen Garden,” is announced as the half-century number, 
and on the back of the very tasteful cover the seed warehouse and nursery which 
Hirst & Dreer founded in 1838 are contrasted with the splendid establishments 
owned by Henry A. Dreer in 1888. The calendar is profusely illustrated, and 
contains much valuable information. 

The Jack Kobinson alluded to in the proverb before you can say Jack 
Eobinson” is said to have been Sir Thomas Eobinson, otherwise known as 
Long Sir Thomas,” and Jack Eobinson,” secretary to George II. Pitt and 
Fox gave him the last name on account of his servility towards the king. In 
an anecdote left in manuscript by Lord Eldon the following occurs : 

“ During the debates on the India Bill, Sheridan, on one evening when Fox’s 
majorities were decreasing, said, ‘Mr. Speaker, this is not at all to be wondered 
at, when a member is employed to corrupt everybody in order to obtain votes.’ 
Upon this there was a great outcry made by almost everybody in the House, 
‘Who is it? Name him! Name him!’ ‘Sir,’ said Sheridan to the Speaker, 
‘ I shall not name the person. It is an unpleasant and invidious thing to do so, 
and therefore I shall not name him. But don’t suppose, sir, that I abstain 
because there is any difficulty in naming him : I could do that, sir, as soon as 
you could say Jach RobinsonJ ” 

But was this the origin of the proverb, or a punning allusion to it? Grose 
says the expression originated from a very volatile gentleman named Jack Eob- 
inson, who would call on his neighbors and be gone before his name could be 
announced. But he gives neither date nor authority. The following lines “ from 
an old play” are elsewhere given as the original phrase : 

* A warke it ys as easie to be doono 
As tys to saye, Jacke! robys on.^^ 

(See Wheeler^s Noted Names of Fiction.”) 

But what was the old play ? Brewer says “ before you can say Jack Eobin- 
son” occurs in one of Hudson’s songs. 


434 


CURRENT NOTES. 


Horsford’s Acid Phosphate.— Strengthens the intellect. — Dr. D. P. 
McClure, Pantoul, Illinois, says, “ I find it very beneficial to strengthen the 
intellect.” 

A CORRESPONDENT wishes to kiiow why March hares should be considered 
madder than hares at any other season. His question was anticipated in 
“ Hey wood’s Epigrams” as long ago as 1567 : 

As mad as a March hare. Where madness compares, 

Are not midsummer hares as mad as March hares ? 

Nares’s Glossary explains the proverb as follows : ‘‘We read that hares are said to 
be unusually wild in the month of March, which is their rutting-time. An old 
sportsman, however, says that hares in the month of March, when the winds are 
usually high, quit the cover to avoid the continual disturbance arising from the 
falling of decayed twigs and the rustling of dried leaves.” But in the “ Apoph- 
thegmes of Erasmus” (1542) March hare is resolved into marsh hare : “ Hares 
are wilder in marshes than elsewhere, because of their greater flatness, and the 
absence of hedges and cover.” 

From the President of Allegheny College^ Pa. 

Your firm has made a success of the Magazine, I think, by the publication 
of a story complete in each number. I see it, and enjoy it very much. 

Yours truly, 

D. H. Wheeler. 

The last three days of March are known as “the borrowed days.” At 
the firesides of the Scottish peasantry the origin of these days is given in this 
quaint rhyme : 

March said to Aperill, 

I see three hoggs upon a hill, 

And if you’ll lend me dayes three, 

I’ll find a way to make them dee ; 

The first o’ them was wind and wet. 

The second o’ them was snaw and sleet. 

The third o’ them was sic a freeze 
It froze the birds’ nests to the trees ; 

When the three days were past and gane. 

The three silly hoggs came hirplin’ hame. 


Horsford’s Acid Phosphate. — ^Nervous Prostration and Weakness of 
the Alimentary Canal. — Dr. E. M. Gavitt, Toledo, Ohio, says, “ It is a valuable 
remedy in nervous prostration and weakness of the alimentary canal.” 

Among the younger writers who have recently appeared, none have excited 
such general interest and admiration as Am41ie Kives. Her first novel is there- 
fore an event in American literature. This will appear in LippincoWs Magazine 
for April. It is called “ The Quick or the Dead?” and is a story of extraordinary 
power. 


LIPPINCOTTS MONTHLY MAGAZINE ADVERTISER. 


M 1 

IVERYTHINGfApniTN 

ItIanualofI 

■ FOR THE UAnUtll 


is this season the grandest ever issued, containing 
tbree colored plates and superb illustra- 
tions of everything that is new, useful, and 
rare in Seeds and Plants, together with 
plain directions of “ How to grow them,^* by 
Peter Henderson. This Manual, which is a 
book of 140 pages, we mail to any address on 
receipt of 25 cents (in stamps). To all so remit- 
ting 25 cents for the Manual we will, at the same 
time, send free by mail, in addition, their choice 
of any one of the following novelties, the value of 
each of which is 25 cents : one packet of the new 
Green and Gold Watermelon, or one packet of 
new Succession Cabbage, or one packet of new 
Zebra Zinnia, or one packet of Butterfly Pansy, 
or one packet of new Mammoth Verbena, or 
one plant of the beautiful Moonflower (see illustration), on tlie distinct under- 
Stundill^, however, that those ordering will state that they saw this advertisement in 
LippincotPs Magazine. 

PETER HENDERSON & 

Frauds in Porous Plasters. 



Those who cannot originate, imitate, and all 
so-called Porous Plasters are only fraudulent imita- 
tions of ALLrCOCK’S. If you want the genuine 
article, be certain not only to ask for 


“ALLCOCK’S,” 

but look well at the Plaster and see that this 



is on every one 




LIPPINCOTT'S MONTHLY MAGAZINE ADVERTISER. 


SEA SON OF ’88. |G[xtension Hamp 


THE NEW CATALOGUE 

—OF — 

Colunlia 
Bicycles 
^ Tricycles 

is the most comprehensive cycling catalogue 
published. 6o pages, 40 engravings. 


FBEE UPON APPLICATION. 


POPE WPG CO., 79 Franklin Street, Boston. 


Brandi Houses; 13 Warren St., New York. 
291 Wabash Avenue, Chicago. 



No. 34. 


Diameter of Base, 1 8 inches. 
Height Extended, 6 feet. 
Closed, 3 feet. 


This Lamp is con- 
trolled in its extension 
by our NEW PATENT SLIDE, 
which, while obviating the use 
of the screw to hold the exten- 
sion from slipping, makes the 
adjustment so simple that the 
whole movement can be con- 
trolled by one hand. 


WITH JAPANESE 


UMBRELLA SHADE, 


Price of Lamp, . . . $15.00 
Price of Umbrella & Holder, 3.76 


Fitted with Duplex Burner. 


Manufactured and For Sale by 


R. Hollings & Co. 

647 WASHINGTON ST. 
Boston. 



Next door to Adams House. 


AN ELEGANT 


ADVA?iCED MEXHOD 

OF 

BOOK-KEEPING. 


THE SEVEN- ACCOUNT SYSTEM. 



Condensed Treatise, 120 pages, 10 x 14, 
Price, $1.00. 


BLAXK BOOKS, 

In Sets, from $5.00 to $100.00. 

BUSINESS COLLEGE. 

Life Scholarship, $50.00. 

THE SEVEN -ACCOUNT SYSTEM. 

19 N. Clark, Chicago. 

Mention this magazine. 

TAKE PHOTOGRAPHS AT NIGHT 

WITH BLITZ PULVER.: 

60 cents for 20 charges. Easy, simple, lots of fun ! 
Send for price of Amateur’s Outfits, and prints from 
Amateur’s Negatives. 

THOS. H. MCCOL.I.IN & CO., 

635 Areh St., Philadelphia. 


WEDDING PRESENT. 

HAVE YOU SEEN 

“OUR WEDDING SOUVENIR?” 

- If not, ask your Bookdealers for it. 

NO WEDDING COMPLETE WITHOUT IT. 

READ WHAT THE PAPERS SAY: 

Among novel and clever ideas for Wedding presents, 
the most attractive that has been seen for some time is 
called ‘Our Wedding Souvenir.' It is an elegant 
album made up for the express purpose of preserving 
permanently a full story of a wedding.” — Hartford 
Courant. 

“ Who can estimate the interest clinging to such a 
book which shall contain the signatures of most and per- 
haps all of those we hold near and dear.” — Springfield 
Republican. 

‘‘ What priceless value should we put on such a book 
if it could be handed down to us from the wedding of our 
parents?” — Springfield Republican. 

Cloth, $5.00. Plush, $7.50. Seal, $8.00. Tree-calf 
or Watered Silk, $10.00. 

PUBLISHERS, 

Siffls & Knight, Troy 


Sent by mail, post-paid, on receipt of the price, 
with privilege of returning if not entirely satis- 
factory and the nponey refunded. 



A Novel. By “The Duchess,” author of “The 
Duchess,” “ Molly Bawn,” “ Phyllis,” etc. i6mo. 
Half cloth. 50 cents. Paper cover. 25 cents. 

For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent by the 
publishers, post-paid, by mail, on receipt of the price. 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, Publishers, 

715 and 717 Market St., Philadelphia, 


LIPPINCOTTS MONTHLY MAGAZINE ADVERTISER. 



ELKINTO 


PALM 




I 


Particular attention is invited to 
our new French Corset^ The Di- 
ane,’^ ranging in price from $1.50 
to $5»^0 each. Our customers are 
cordially invited to examine these 
most excellent Faris^made Corsets, 
which combine new features in style 


A true and perfect Soap for Babies, 
Children or Persons of Delicate Skin. 

A frica— FIVE thousand miles 

from Philadelphia grows the stately 
palm tree, producing a beautiful orange- 
colored fruit, rich in oil of the most healing 
nature for burns, scalds or bruises. 

We buy the best of this oil and make our 
PALM TOILET SO AP entirely of it. When 
the Soap is made it Contains many of the 
healing properties of the oil. 

For Persons of Delicate Skin and Children, 
some of our friends say it is the best Toilet 
Soap in the world. Price per dozen. 


532 St. John St., Philadelphia, Penna. 


and shape, and are absolutely con- 
trolled by us for the United States, 

Mail orders receive careful as well 
as prompt attention. 


James McCreery & Co. 
SEOADM m ELEVENTH ST., 


NEW YORK. 


OUR LATEST 

Children’s Stamping Outfits 

Containing 63 useful and pretty pat- 
terns, with materials and instructions 
for use. Price, only 35 cents each. 
Very instructive and amusing to the 
little folks. Every Fancy Goods dealer, 
who does Stamping, could well make 
use of one. Send 5 one-cent stamps 
for sample-copy of our 

Perfection Quarterly, 

It contains about 300 Ncav Patterns at 
each issue. Liberal discount to the 
trade. 


Haniugton & Cowles, 

90 Walker St., New York. 

SCROLL SAWS, TOOLS, 

and all material used by the Scroll 
Sawyer or Wood-worker. Send 4 cts. 
in stamps for large Illustrated Cata- 
logue of Saws, Tools, Designs, etc. 
Or send 10 cts. in stamps for the Cata- 
logue, a handsome iChct. paiterntand 
20 COUPON OFFERS. We have 
the largest stock of Scroll Saw Goods 
in the U. S. J. WILKINSON CO., 77 State 
Street, Chicago, 111. 




JheAmericah cycles 

Descriptive Catalogue 
ON Application. 
fiORMULlVaJEFEERY 

K-MFG.CO.-^- 
Chicago, III. 
1st Manufacturers IN AMERICA 




R. M. LAMBIE, 

ALL KINDS OF 

BOOK 

HOLDERS 

The Most Perfect 

Dictionary Holder. 


Send for Illustrated 
Catalogue. 

39 East 19th St., N. Y. 


WATERLOO 0R6ANS 

are noted for unequalled quality of tone, 9U- 
perior finish and design of eases. They pump 
one~half easier than any other made. 


BEST IN THE WOELD. 


In loealities where we have no agents will 
sell direct to puhlie at wholesale prices, For 
prices and catalogues, address 



MAPCOjLM l,ove & CO,, 

Waterloo, N. Y, 

PRINT YOUR OWN CARDS! 

Press S3.00. Circular Press 38.00, News- 
paper Size, 344.00. Type-setting easy. 
Printed dir^tions. Send 2 stamps for our 
list of Press^, Type, etc., to factory. 

KELSEY & GO., Meriden, Conn. 
Please Mention this Magazine. 


A Box of Distaff, Grecian Antiquf^or Parch- 
ment Vellum Writing Paper and Fnvelopes, 
by mail for 50 cents. 60 Cards and Plate Engraved, $x. 
CHARLES R. BOURNE, 271 Broadway, New York. 


GET 

WELL 


By wearing our KNITTED ABDOM- 
INAL BANDS. Send size and ^ 1.50 for 
sample to 

A, M. & F. D. LAWSON. 

795 Broadway, New York. 


-7 



LIPPINCOTT'S MONTHLY MAGAZINE ADVERTISER. 


LLY- 



yi FULL ^ESCF{/PT/OlJ OF 

— MANY THOUSANDS IN USE — 

EXETERMACHINEWORKS 


Factory-EXETER,NH - bIjVtw.mass. 

CATALOGUE No. I. - STEAM-WARMING- 
RESIOENCES-PUBLIC BUILDINGS. 
CATALOGUE No.2.-GREENHOUSE-HEAT- 
ING-STEAM-HOT WATER. 
CATALOGUE No, 3. - BLOWERS - HOT- 
BLAST HEATING. 
catalogue No. 4.- THE EXETER STEAM 
ENGINES. 

SEND TO EXETER FOR NUMBER WANTED. 




And a very pretty climbing plant it is. Perfectly hardy, the 
stem dyin^ down every autumn, but growing again so rapidly 
in the spring as to completely cover any trellis or arbor very 
early in the season. It is as easily cultivated as the Madeira 
Vine, and is produced from tubers which will make from ten 
to twelve feet of vine, and with its beautiful heart shaped 
leaves, bright green, peculiar foliage, and clusters of delicate 
white flowers, sending forth a delicious cinnamon odor, ren- 
der it by far one of the most desirable climbers in cultivation. 
A tuber planted near a door or window, and the vine 
trained over and about it, makes an ornament worthy the ad- 
miration of all. The tubers will stand our most severe win- 
ters without any protection, and when well grown will 
measure two feet in length. J. P. Rung, Tyrone, Pa., says : 
“ The vine has grown about eighteen feet, and was very full 
of bloom, with a delicious odor, scenting the air for a long 
distance. The foliage is very much admired, and is withal a 
desideratum in the way of vines.” When first introduced here 
from Japan, the tubers sold for $10 each. I will send two 
tubers, nicely packed in moss, by mail, post-paid, for 50 
cents, a for SI or Iti for S2. (No order received for 
less than 50 cents.) Remit by postal note, silver, or stamps. 

Address FRANK FINCH, clyde, n. y. 

JJ^AGENT.S WANTED. For 5 cents extra I 
will send a large colored lithograph of the Cinnamon Vine, 
with terms to agents. Any lady or gent can easily make from 
$3 to S5 per day selling this beautiful fragrant vine. 


DR. LYON’S 

TOOTH 

TAB LE TS 

A compressed tooth-powder. 
Made by a practical dentist. 
Absolutely pure and harmless. 
Thoroughly cleanses the teeth. 
Approved by leading dentists. 
Used by people of refinement. 
Convenient for travellers. 

Sold every »There. Sent by mail on receipt of oO ct«. 

I. W. LYON, Proprietor, 

88 maiden Ijane, New York. 


lONSUMPTION 


pi 

■ g An old physician, retired from practice, hav- 
I I placed in his hands by an East India 

missionary the formula of a simple vegetable 
remedy for the speedy and permanent cure of 
CONSUMPTION, HRONCfllTIS, ASTH- 
MA) CATARRH, and all Throat and Lung Affec- 
tions, also a positive andnidical cure for NERVOUS 


and all Nervous 
ter having test- 
dert'ul cura- 
in thousands of 

it his duty to 

make it known to his Buffering fellows. Actuated by 


DEBILITY 

Complaints, af. 
ed its won- 
tiTC powers 

cases, has felt 


CURED; 


by 

this motive and a desire to relieve human suffering, I 
will send free of charge, to all who desire it. this 
recipe, in German, French or English, with full di- 
rections for preparing and Hsing, Sent by mail by 
addressing with stamp, naming this paper. 

W. A. NOYES, 149 Power’s Block, Eoclie8ter,N.Y. 


''STAMMERING” 

and all defects of speech 
permanently cured. 

Dear Sir : — ** I take pleasure in stating I am ac- 
quainted with the method employed by Mr. E. S. John- 
ston for the relief of stammering, and in my judgment it 
is the correct one. 1 have knowledge of aggravated cases 
which were entirely cured by him. Harrison Allen, 
M.D., Prof. Physiology, University of Pennsylvania.** 
For full particulars, address £. S. Johnston, Institute^ 
nth and Spring Garden Streets, Philadelphia. 



MORPHINE HABIT 

CURED AT HONE. NO PAIN, 

Nervousntts, Lost sleep or interference with 
business. IHrections simple. Terms low. Treat- 
ment sent on trial and MO PAY asked until ara 
benefited. Can refer to hnndredn of CUKES. 
Particulars FREE. THJB 

Y CO., LAFAYETTE. IndU 
J^YSP^^CS"Jicurable preferred, WANTED. Ad- 



dress J.J. F. Popp, Phila., Pa. 


MeuUon this magazine. 

2S 


A DOl^I^AR BILl^ 

can be made for every hour's work. We will show you 
how to do it, reader. All is new, sure, light, and pleas- 
ant. Both sexes, all ages. Business admits of your 
living at home. We start you /ref. Any one can do the 
work. Many make much more than $i per hour. No 
special ability or training required. Reward sure. AH 
workers meet with grand, rushing business. Address at 
once, Stinson & Co., Portland, Maine. 



LIPPINCOTTS MONTHLY MAGAZINE ADVERTISER. 



AND RAPID COPYING PROCESS. 

Acknowledged by the thousands using it to be the most perfect and practical 
device for letter-copying, with the ordinary copying-press, which has ever been 
brought into public use. Dampened sheets are used instead of brushing water on 
the book. We furnish pads made of paper stock specially adapted to the purpose, 
and provided with our patent edge protector, making a strong and durable pad when 
wet. We also furnish cloth pads and rubber sheets when desired ; but nothing can 
equal our special paper pads for perfect copying. Circulars mailed when desired, 
giving full particulars. Address HILD MAN»FG CO., 

1020 New Market Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 





Solid GOLD WATCHES and 
Genuine DIAMOND RINGS 

To enable 03 to get our list of popular low-priced Books Into the hands of as many people as 
possible and thereby increase our sales, we make the following liberal offer which will hold good 
until May Ist.i For the first 50 correct answers to the question 'What is the longest 
verse in the Bible? we will give the following valuable presents: For the first correct 
aasweraGentleman’s(or Lady’s) Hunting Case Solid Gold Watch and Chain worth $75; for the 
second, a Genuine Diamond Ring worth $50; for the third, a Solid Gold Watch (open face) worth 
$40; for the fourth, a Genuine Diamond Ring worth $25, and for each of the next 46 correct 
answers (if there be so many), an elegantly bound volume of Poems. With your answer enclose 
25c. (stamps, postal note or 8ilver),for which we will send you, post-paid, our Grand Combination 
Padkag^ containing a list of our popular low-priced Books and all the following Cards, Games, Ac. : 
1 pack Courting Cards, (25 styles), pack Conversation Cards (2i styles), pack New Acquaintance 
Cards, pack Love Cards, pack Nose Poking Cards, pack Comic Flirtation Cards, pack Escort Cards 
pack Invitation Cards, pack Overtakers (lots of fun), pack O B Cautious Cards, pack PoppingQues- 
tion Cards, the Stan^rd Bean Catcher, 1 Sheet Parlor Magic, 60 Best Conundrums, SO Choice 
Games for Parties, Komlcal Konversation, The Game of Fortnn^TheGameof Fox and Geese, The 
Game of Nine Men Morris, The Albnm "Writer’s Friend, The Great Animal Puzzle, The Game of 
Forfeits, 100 Choice Album Verses, The Great Eureka Prize Puzzle, How to tell a lady’s age, 1 For- 
tune Telling Tablet, Ac. We guarantee this package to more than satisfy every purchaser or 
will refund the money paid for it.ifkBe sure to give your full na me and address. Address f 
PUB3L.ISHIN' 


HOWARB 


tNC4 CO., 


Wallingford. Conn. 



/«) 

IN THE WORLD. 

IQIDHEOa 

@ AWARDED ® 



ORLEANS 
18B5. 





These glues are used in the Smithsonian Institute at Washington, 
for all its works of moifnting specimens, by the Government Arse- 
nals and Department buildings, by the Pullman Palace Car Co., 
Mason k Hamlin Organ and Piano Co., and by thousands of first- 
class manufacturers and mechanics throughout the world, for all 
kinds of tine w'ork. Pronounced the STRONGEST ADHE- 
SIVE KNOWN. No other glues have the record of 1620 jpoimds 
to the square inch. The total quantity sold between January 1880 and 
1887, in all parts of the world, amounted to over Forty-seTen 
Million bottles. No short measure, no acid, no humbug in Gen- 
uine liO Prise’s Glues. Remember that th^ are unequalled 
for repairing all kinds of Furniture^ Glass Ohinay Itoits 
B ooks) Eeather, Musical InstrumentSy Statuary, 
etc., etc. 

To avoid the public being deceived by the many glnes flooding the 
market, some with high-sounding names, others imitating our aover- 
tisements, trade-marks, and name as near as th^ dare, we have 
commenced putting the autograph below on all the Genuine LePage’s 
Glues. 

Sample by mail, 20 cents (stamps). Mention this journal. 



GLOUCESTER, MASS. 



[)ur new Patent Can can be^ called in "the' pocket 
and used without danger of soiling from the can or 
brush ; all superfluous glue is removed on wiper. 
This style is made in three sizes, half pint, gfill and 
half gill ; Our regular cans are pint, quart, two-quart 
and gallon ; Bottles, two sizes as heretofore. 


TBun'3©rs^Pa1STnet^'Ma!?er8r"annSetar 

Workers, without Steam-power, by using out- 
fits of BARNES'S PATENT FOOT- 
POyrER MACHINERY, can bid lower and 
save more money from their Jobsj 
than by any other means for doing 1 
their work. Also for industrial train- 
ing in schools or homes. With them 
practical journeymen's trades can 
be acquired. Catalogue free. 

Address W. T. it JOHN BABNE3 CO., 

No. 593 Buh 7 Stroot, Bockford, ZU. 


I N OFFICE BUILDINGS, 

I with U. S, Mail Chutes, (pat’d), 
I and the XT. S. free collection ser- 
I vicct tenants mail letters without 
B going down stairs. Write for par- 
ticulars, The Cutler Mfg. Co., 
Rochester, N.Y,, Sole Makers. 



29 


LJPP/NCOTT'S MONTHLY MAGAZINE ADVERTISER. 


SEDGWICK WOVEN STEEL WIRE FENCE AND GATES: 



The best Farm, Garden, Poultry Yard, F<awii, School Fot, Park 
and Cemetery Fences and Gates. Perfect Automatic Gate. Cheap- 
est and l^eatest Iron Fences. Iron and Wire Summer Ilonses,Iiawn 
Furniture, and other wire work. Best Wire Stretcher and Pliers. 
Ask dealers in hardware, or address 


EDWARD SUTTON, Eastern 


SEDGWICK BROSo, Richmond, Ind. 

istern Asent, 300 MARKET ST., PHILADELPHIA. PA. 


$ICMJO;06 REWitoi 


» W e offer $1000.00 Reward for a cougrh 

I or throat trouble (last stasres of disease 
excepted), which cannot be relieved by a 
proper use of Dr. X. Stone’s Bronchial 
Wafers. Sample free. f 

^^^WBs^S^m^hfedlclneC^ 


•j^gulncj 


ni. 


OFF UCDP I Why HOt save one-ha^ on looo useful 
OLt n Lll L 1 Articles ? Send for Catalogue. Big 
pay to Agents. CHICAGO SCALE CO., Chicago., 111. 




SENT! 


^^^12(HIEFREMEpiES 

pA|VIILI ES '^^JrAYELERSi 
WITH FULUNSTRUCTIONS 
® FILLS A WANT 
LONG WISHED FOR 

T»RICE A CO. 

- /kubURN,N.Y 



Warranted Seed. 


I have founded 
my business on 
the belief that 

the public are anxious to get tbeir seed directly from the 
grower. Raising a large proportion of my seed enables 
me to warrant its freshness and purity, as see my Vege- 
table and Flower Seed Catalogue for 1888, FREE 
for every son and daughter of Adam. It Is 
liberally illustrated with engravings made directly 
from photographs of vegetables grown on my seed 
farms. Besides an immense variety of standard seed, you 
will find in It some valuable new vegetables not found In 
any other catalogue. As the original introducer of the 
Eclipse Beet, Burbank and Early Ohio Potatoes, Hubbard 
Squash, Deephead Cabbage, Cory Corn, and a score of other 
Valuable vegetables, I invite the patronage of the public. 

JAMES J. H. GREGORY, Marblehead, Mass. 


Warren^ 

Thread, Cloth, and Satin Covered. 



DRESS STAYS 

Finished in Three Styles. 
For sale everywhere. 



positively cured by the great German 
Remedy. Sample package and book 
for 4 cents in stamps. E. H. Med- 
ical Co., East Hampton, Conn. 


TREES 


SPRING PLANTINC. 

We offspthe largest and most com- 
plete general stock in the U. fc>., be- 

Frnit& Ornamental, sides many Novelties. Catalogues 
r roil « urnamentai. regular customers, free. 

A To others : No. 1, Fruits, 10c. *, No. 2, 
Bx 1 1 Bi Ornament^ Trees, etc., illustrated, 
BHVwBliW 15c.; No. ^ Strawberries ; No. 4, 
MM a IVholesale; No. 5. Roses, hree. 

GRAPE VINES eLLWAIVGER & BARRY 

MT. HOPE NURSERIES, KOCH ESTER, New York. 



PHONOGRAPHY 

• HONETIC SHORT HAND 

8elf-taught, 8end for Catalog. Address 
_T^e Ph ono graphic In stitute , Cincinnati. 

AND NOT 

ayj^EAB OUT. 

Ofll II by Jewellers. By mail, 25 c. Circulars free. 
OULU J. o. Birch & Co., 184 Lewis St., New York, 

P R 1 1 1 X Q How to grow strawberries, raspberries, 
r n U I 10 blackberries, grapes, peaches, plums, 
pears, and apples. New Edition for 10c. or 10 
names of fruit-g rowers. PUTNEY & WOODWARD, Brentwood, N.Y. 

^H08. P. Simpson, Washington. D. 
C. No atty’s fee until Patent ob- 
tained. Write for Inventor’s Guide. 


PATENTS 


OZZONI’S 


n — 

U COMPLEXION 

Imparts a brilliant transparency to the skin. Re- 
H moves all pimples, freckles and discolorations. For 
H sale by all flrst-class druggists, or mailed for 60 cts. 

lOWDER. 


SEEDS 


30 


GIVEN AWAY! A package 
Mixed Flower seeds (500 kinds), with 
Park's Floral Guide, all for 2 
stamps. Every flower-lover delighted. Tell all your 
friends. G. W. Park, Fannettsburg, Pa. 

4®* Send at once. This notice will not appear again. 



LIPPINCOTT'S MONTHLY MAGAZINE ADVERTISER. 



Perfectly nourishes the child from birth, without the addition of cow’s milk, 
and digests as easily as human milk. Send for “Our Baby’s First and Second 
Years,” by Marion Harland. REED &. CARNRICK, New York. 


PLAYS 


Dialoj^ues, Tableaux, Speakers, for 
School,Club& Parlor. Best out. Cata- 
lo^e free. T. S. Denison, Chicago, 111. 


Dim miUr* books, catalogue free. W. T 
DUiUJlflu COMSTOCK, 2 :? Warren St..N. Y. 

CAPITAL, $ 750 , 000 . 


Y MADE easy Manutactur- 
ing Rubber Stamps. Send 
for Price List of Outfits, to 
J. F. W. Dorman, 217 East 
G erman St., Baltimore, M d. 

¥URPUrs7$349.3d^ ~ 




LAND 

MORTGACE CO. 


17 Years’ Experience. $10,363,800 loaned. $6,450,681 of Interest 
and Principal returned to Investors. No delay. Not a dollar lost. 



ENTURE BONDS 


In amounts of §300 and upwards, for 
sale at our New York ofl&ce 
at par and accrued interest* 
eecured by our Capital and surpluB of $1,099,307. Each $100,0{W of Bond^is ft^er 


secured by $100,000 of First Mortgages on Real Estate worth over $250,000, 
deposited with the Farmers’ Loan and Trust Co, of New York, with full power of sale. 
Each Debenture Bond is certified by said Trust Co. 

^preferred. Mortgages will he made direct to the investor. Principal and interest fully guaranteed. 

All Bonds, and interest by half-yearly coupons, payable at the National Bank of Commerce in New York, 
For pamphlet with full information, and 450 testimonials by our patrons, address 


J. B. WATKINS L. M. CO., Lawrence, Kansas, 

Or HENRY DICKINSON, New Torh Manager, »43 Broadway. 




FOR THE HAIR 

Tlie Oldest: and tlie Best:. 


Barry's Tricopherous not only gives brilliancy to the 
Hair, but promotes the growth to such a degree that in a 
few months a thin head of hair becomes by its use a thick 
mass of shining fibres. ^ I 



TOOTH POWDER 


keeps the teeth whitethe breath sweet 


\ ANDTHE GUMS HEALTHY 
^^CONTAINS NO GRIT. NO ACID 
"ISTtngr anything injurious. 







. _ , DIREQTIONS ^ , 

DIP THE BRUSH IN WATER, SPRINKLE ON A FEW 
DROPS or Rubifjdam’'and apply in the usual manner 

PRICE 2 sf A BOTTLE 

PUT UP BY. 

e.W.HOYX Sc CO. 

PROPRIETORS OF 

HOYTS GERMAN COLOGNE. , 

i-OWCLL.MABS. 




UPPINCOTT'S MONTHLY MAGAZINE ADVERTISER, 


A New Work on Ornithology. 

A Manual of 

North American 

Birds. 

Containing Concise Descriptions of every Species of Bird known 

in North America. 


By Robert Ridgway, 

Curator Department of Birds, United States National Museum. 

Profusely Illustrated with 464 Outline Cuts of 
the Generic Characters, and 

A PORTRAIT OP THE LATE SPENCER P BAIRD. 

Library Edition, Royal 
8vo, Extra Cloth, Gilt. 

Sportsman’s Edition, 

Leather 

The object of the present volume is to furnish a convenient manual of North American 
Ornithology, reduced to the smallest compass, by the omission of everything that is not abso- 
lutely necessary for determining the character of any given specimen, and including, besides the 
correct nomenclature of each species, a statement of its natural habitat, and other concomitant 
data. This Manual” will serve as a handy book for the sportsman and traveller, as well as for 
the resident naturalist. 

“ The author has had unrivalled advantages for the preparation of a treatise of this character, 
arising from his own field experience, his relation with the Smithsonian Institution as curator of 
the department of birds, and the free access granted him to various private and public collections 
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classification, numeration, and nomenclature adopted by the American Ornithological Union. 
It will be one of the most valuable contributions to the literature of the subject which has ever 
appeared .” — Norristown Herald, 

For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, on receipt of the price, by 

J. B. Lippincott Company, Publishers, 

715 and 717 Market St., Philadelphia. 

32 



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33 





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34 




LIPPINCOTTS MONTHLY MAGAZINE ADVERTISER. 


Captain Charles King’s Stories. 


THE COLONEL’S DAUGHTER; 

OR, 

WINNING HIS SPURS. 

By CAP'TAIN CHARI.ES KING, IT.S.A., 

Author of “ Kitty’s Conquest,” etc. 

ISmo. liixtra Olotli. Sl* 35 * 

There have been few American novels published of late years so thoroughly 
readable as ‘The Colonel^s Daughter.* There are brilliant pictures of garrison 
life, a taste of fighting and adventure, and a chivalrous love affair, interwoven 
with clever sketches of military types. The style is bright, the dialogue simple 
and natural, the heroine a charming creature, with just a spice of wilfulness, and 
the favorite lieutenant one of those fortunate fellows whom most men envy and 
many women admire .** — Boston Literary World. 


MARION’S FAITH. 

By CAPXAI]^ CBARLrHS KINO, U.S«A., 

Author of ” The Colonel’s Daughter,” ” Kitty’s Conquest,” etc. 

Idmo. Olotli* 

“It is replete with spirited, interesting, humorous, and pathetic pictures of 
•oldier life on the frontier, and will be received with a warm welcome, not only 
by the large circle of readers of the author* s previous works, but by all who 
delight in an excellent story charmingly told .** — Chicago Evening Journal. 


KITTY’S CONQUEST. 

By CAPXAIN CSIAR1.HS KINO, U.S.A., 

Author of “The Colonel’s Daughter,” etc. 
lOmo* XSxitrap Olotli. Sl* 00 « 

“ ‘ Kitty*s Conquest,* a charming little story of love and adventure, by Charles 
KLing, U.S.A. The plot is laid in the South during the reconstruction period 
following the late war. The book is written in a most attractive style, and 
abounds in bright passages. The characters are drawn in a very pleasing man- 
ner, and the plot is handled very successfully throughout. It is altogether a 
pleasing addition to the library of modern fiction .** — Boston Post. 


THE DESERTER. 

By CAPTAIN CHARLrKS KING, U.S.A. 

This powerful story of army society life appears in Lippincott*s Magazine 
for May, 1887. Price, 15 cents; or bound in half cloth, 50 cents. 

“The most glowing and impressive production of this fascinating American 
writer. In presentation of love and adventure, and description of frontier 
life, the story is unexcelled.** 


For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, on receipt 
of the price, by 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, Publishers, 

Nos. 715 and 717 Market Street, Philadelphia. 

35 


LIPPINCOTTS MONTHLY MAGAZINE ADVERTISER. 



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1 


We want one person in every village, town and township, to 
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Young Folks. Junges Volk, containing German 
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f Furthermore, every trial year subscriber, for 
either of the paners will receive f bv mail 


FREE 


F the papers will receive f ree by mail 
' our new !IK>0 pattern Stamping Outfit. Trial 
' year subscriptions will be received for either of 
the papers as follows: 1 subscription and 1 outfit, 32 cents; 
2 subscriptions and 2 outfits, if sent at one time, cents: 
4L. subscriptions and 4: outfits, if sent at one time, is].. For $1 
send a dollar bill, but for less, send 1 . .cent postage stamps. 
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■ The trial year subscriptions are almost free, 
I and this the Regal Queen of Htanip- 
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tirely free. It is the greatest and best offer 
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ble to admit of naming all : 1 Poppies for Scarf, 7 1-2 inch : 
2 Tidy design, 7 1-2 inch; 3 Splendid Tinsel design, 8 inch; 4 
Golden Rod, 4 inch ; 6 Pond Lilies ; 6 Pansies ; 7 Moss Rose Buds ; 
8 Tube Roses; 9 Wheat; 10 Oak Lcpves; II Maiden Hair Ferns: 
13 Boy; 13 Girl’s Head ; 14 Bird ; 15 Strawberries; 16 Owl; 17 
Dog; 18 Butterfly ; 19 Apple Blossoms ; 20 Calla Lily; 21 Anchor; 
22 Morning Glories ; 23 Japanese Lilies ; 24 Rabbit ; 25 Bunch For- 
get-me-nots: 26 Fuchsias ; 27 Bell Drops; 28 Fan; 29 Clown’s 
Head: 30 Cat’s Head. 'TO other splendid patterns are inclndcd 
In this Regal Queeu of stamping outfits- in all lOO 
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others. Those who subscribe will find the papers well worth 
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the majority will make up to us the loss, that this year we incur, 
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{ '^ear, at the regular price, which all will be willing to admit ia 
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GEORGE STINSON A CO., Box 241 PORTLAND, MaUIB. 


GD A DU nil niniD U ^ practical treatise, gi v- 
uIvAA D UUJLiI UlvJDi >ng full instructions how 
to cultivate, prune, and train the vine so as to insure the 
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J. H. TRTON, WillonsplibY, Ohio. 



LIPPINCOTTS MONTHLY MAGAZINE ADVERTISER. 


HiLF-llS WITH IMfflICAN HISTORY. 

Selected and arranged by 

CHARLES MORRIS. 


2 Tols. Crown Sto. 


Uniform with “Half-Hours with the 
Best American .uthors.’’ 

IT' 

Cloth, gilt top. $3.00. Falf morocco^ 
$5.00. Three-quarters calf. $6.50. 

‘‘It is a more satisfactory treatment of American history than most of the 
works which seek to cover, with full details, the entire field. — Chicago Tribune. 

“ From the pages of each of our standard histories, and from authors most 
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with which they deal. The whole forming a scheme of historical mosaics as 
novel as it is attractive. The work is in every way meritorious. It is of per- 
manent value, and ought to be received with general favor.** — Public Opinion. 

“In these volumes Prof. Morris has undertaken to do for American history 
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forms a consecutive history of our country from the earliest times to the present 
day. The selections are made with great judgment.** — The Epoch. 

“The compiler has arranged his selections in chronological order, and with 
rare skill and judgment has selected from the wide range' of American histor- 
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important events in the history of our country.** — Boston Advertiser. 

“Mr. Morris had in his materials the making of many epics, and he has 
arranged them with unusual skill. No man could have made more out of them. 
He has given in these ‘ Half-Hours* of his weeks and months, not to say years, 
of thoughtful and scholarly reading. He has added, in a word, to Lamb*s books 
which are books.** — N. Y. Mail and Express. 

“The volumes are interesting, and contain much valuable matter.** — 
Richmond Dispatch. 

“The selections have been made with good discretion, and the books are 
full of valuable matter attractively presented, and are, moreover, comely to look 
upon.** — Philadelphia Evening Telegraph. 

“ The best history of America for the general reader which has yet been 
published.** — Boston Evening Traveler. 


For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent by mail, postage prepaid, on 
receipt of the price, by 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, Publishers, 

715 and 717 Market St., Philadelphia. 

37 



LlPPlNCOrrs MONTHLY AfAGAZINE ADVERTISER, 

S H JL W, 

54 West I4th St., near 6th Ave., New York. 

World-renowned Eugenie’s Secret of Beauty, or “C.B,” 

Fer the complexion; transparent; recommended by physicians; warranted 
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THE MONTE CRISTO VELOUTINE FACE-POWDER. 

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the cosmetic mask (Patented.) 

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Al] Goods can be exchanged at my expense. Send for Illustrated Catalogue. 




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SEND FOR SAMPLES. 


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38 




LIPPINCOTT’S MONTHLY MAGAZINE ADVERTISER. 



Albany Perforated 
Wrapping Paper Co. 

MANUFACTURERS OP 

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31 Somerset St., Boston, Mass., July 1, 1885. 

A. P. W. Paper Co. 

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39 


LIPPINCOTrS MONTHLY MAGAZINE ADVERTISER. 


Dyspepsia Brings Despondency. 


IN MANY CASES THEY ARE ALMOST SYNONYMOUS TERMS. 


It does not pay to be despondent. Howell you help it? 
Get rid of your Dyspepsia. You can do it by iisin^ 



Dyspepsia. 


This poor word is made to do duty for a multitude of different 
ailments. And while to the many invalids it may mean any one 
of forty diseases, to the physician it means next to nothing. It 
is almost synonymous with indigestion, and means difficult digestion. 

‘ It is properly used to express difficult digestion not depending upon an organic disease of 
the organs of digestion. Now this affection is a very common one. 

The stomach is a very important member in the kingdom of the human body Anatomi- 
cally, it is a muscular pouch or sack. The walls of this pouch are made of three layers of mus- 
cles, the fibres of which are arranged by wonderful interlacings, gyrations, and circumvolutions 
into forms of the most stupendous forces and actions. This wonderful arrangement, which 
defies description and transcends the highest imagination, is essential to the performance of its 
FUNCTION or USE. 

This function is more or less interfered with from various causes. Any one of a hundred 
circumstances may occur to depress the vitality of the body. Of course, the stomach sympathizes 
with the general condition, and when called upon to perform its accustomed labor the task is a 
painful one, and it cries out for indulgence. Lack of nourishment diminishes the power of the 
stomach, which cries for further indulgence; and thus bad becomes continually worse. 

There are very few cases of Dyspepsia, no matter how confirmed, which may not be cured 
or greatly relieved by Compound Oxygen, if, with the use of this agent, our special directions 
for the treatment of dyspeptic cases be carefully followed. 

To show how promptly the Oxygen Treatment acts on the digestive organs, and how 
quickly it improves the appetite and general health, we offer the following brief extract : 


George Boynton, Esq., 34 West Twenty-fourth Street, N. Y., in a letter dated 3d mo. 12, 1886, thus expresses 
his estimate of Compound Oxygen : 

** I gladly testify to the beneficial effects of the Compound Oxygen on myself, having used it for the past three 
years (the latter two years of which, occasionally, as the case might require). At the time of commencing the 
Compound Oxygen, I had been an invalid for a long time, unable to perform any kind of labor, from ailments in- 
duced by chronic dyspepsia ^ like nervous affection 0/ the heart and nervous prostration generally. 

** At present my general health is excellent; dyspepsia (an affliction from childhood) is entirely non est^ said 
only the faithful use of Compound Oxygen has brought this about. With care and a few extra inhalations a bad 
cold can be entirely broken up within a few hours. As a vitaiiser it seems to so improve the condition of the blood 
as to make one less susceptible to the extremes of both heat and cold ; at least such was the result to me. I have 
the fullest confidence in' its efficacy ; am always pleased to recommend it to any one, and would not be without it.**^ 

It will be interesting to the afflicted to peruse the new brochure, a book of 200 pages, full of 
the account of Drs. Starkey & Patents Compound Oxygen, and the testimony of wonderful cases 
in Consumption, Asthma, Bronchitis, Dyspepsia, Catarrh, Hay Fever, Headache, Debility, 
Rheumatism, Neuralgia, and all Chronic and Nervous Disorders cured or helped by this treat- 
ment. It will be sent free by mail to all who will address Drs. Starkey & Palen, No. 1529^^ 
Arch Street, Philadelphia, Penna., 331 Montgomery Street, San Francisco, Cal., 58 Church 
Street, Toronto, Canada. 


40 





































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